


No Air

by ArtemisRayne



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Medical Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 06:05:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 51,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/719729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtemisRayne/pseuds/ArtemisRayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Tina wakes up in a panic and cold sweat she figures it's going to be a bad day, but what she doesn't expect is that she'll spend her entire day in a hospital wondering if she's ever going to see her best friend alive again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When Nightmares Bleed Over into Reality

I wake up in a panic, shivering in the cold sweat on my skin and looking around with wide eyes, sure that there must be something horrible going on. Otherwise why would there be this huge ominous knot in my stomach? My eyes pan my half-dark bedroom, but nothing looks out of place.

Same music posters on the wall, the black screen of my silent computer and the blinking light of my plugged-in iPod next to it, a heap on the floor that is my discarded clothes from yesterday that haven't quite made it all the way to the hamper yet. My alarm clock is glowing out the time in pale red, four minutes before the alarm is set to go off. The rest of the house sounds silent as well, meaning Mum has already left for work (Dad is still out of town on business.)

The longer I sit here, the more the feeling fades away. It must have been something in my dream that had me so freaked out, I reason. I can't remember for the life of me what I was dreaming about, but that's nothing all that unusual. I very rarely remember my dreams. The fear I'd felt when I woke up makes me really curious, but after a few minutes I realise that I'm never going to figure out what I was dreaming and give up. A second later my alarm clock begins screeching and I thump it heavily to make it stop, resigning myself to having to get up with a loud groan. I am  _not_  a morning person.

A hot shower calms me down even more and by the time I get out I've pretty much put aside the panic. I go through my morning routine on autopilot, getting dressed, doing my make-up, and getting everything put into my messenger bag. When I realise my history book is missing I tear the living room and my bedroom apart looking for it (my homework is in it and it's due today) before finally discovering it on the kitchen counter. Don't ask me, because I'm pretty sure I left it on the couch. Mum must have moved it.

I look up at the clock and realise I should have left the house ten minutes ago. I grab my iPod and stuff it into my bag, barely remember to stick my cell phone in my pocket, and then race out of the door. Only at the edge of the yard do I remember I was supposed to lock up the house and I run back, digging my keys out of my backpack on the way. Once I'm sure that in the case of robbery, breaking will be required before entering, I backtrack to the pavement and keep on my way to school.

When I get to the corner where I normally meet up with Artie, he's not there. I wonder if he went on without me, considering that I'm so late, but normally if he does he'll text me to make sure I've woken up. Curious, I pull out my phone but there are no missed texts. I look down the road towards his house, wondering if he's running late too. His dad's van isn't in the driveway, which is kind of weird since his dad goes to work later in the day, but I can't see him coming down the pavement or anything.

Fifteen minutes and four unanswered texts later, I know if I don't leave now I'm going to be late for school. Sending one last ' _Where r u_?' to Artie, I tuck my phone back in my pocket and start for school by myself. Maybe he's sick, I think. Or maybe he's left his phone on vibrate again. He does that a lot, and that would explain why he's not answering me. Still, something doesn't feel right and I'm anxious to get to school. He's in my first hour, and then I'll know what happened this morning.

I get to the school right as the first bell rings. You'd think that since the bell had rung everyone would start filtering out of the halls and towards classes, but for some odd reason I'll never understand it actually makes the whole mess even thicker. I have to practically elbow my way to my locker, which is not that effective since I am not exactly a large or strong person, and when I get there Mercedes and Kurt are just walking away from it.

"Oh there you are, girl," Mercedes says in that overly boisterous voice she always seems to be using. I discovered a long time ago that Mercedes is pretty much incapable of talking in a non-bravado-y tone, except when she's feeling really down. "We thought you weren't gonna show."

"Overslept," I explain (well technically I suppose it's a lie), jerking my locker open and exchanging my history book for science. "Hey, have you guys seen Artie?" I ask, glancing over my shoulder at the connected-at-the-hips pair.

"We thought he'd be with you," Kurt answers, and he and Mercedes exchange one of those looks where I swear they must be talking telepathically. Judging by the mischievous curls in both their smiles, I don't want to know what they're thinking. Almost all of the possibilities that fill my head at that moment are the sort that make me blush, which I'm embarrassed to realise I'm actually doing. Irritating, since I really don't have a reason to be blushing in the first place.

"I haven't seen him, and he's not answering my texts," I say, closing my locker and turning in the direction of my first hour. Mercedes and Kurt both just shrug, neither of them looking quite as concerned about it as I am. I'm starting to consider that maybe my freaky dream thing has just made me extremely paranoid and I'm blowing things out of proportion.

"We'll let ya know if we see him," Mercedes says and then we head our separate ways for class. I slip into my classroom just after the bell rings, getting me an annoyed look from Mr. Spencer. I don't really care, since all of my focus immediately turns to the handicap desk and I see that it's definitely empty.

"Cutting it close there, miss," Mr. Spencer warns when I sit down in my usual desk right beside Artie's. I just nod and dig out my notebook. I try not to be too frustrated when five minutes later Jason Butler comes into class and Mr. Spencer just glances at him, smiles, and goes back to his lesson without the slightest reprimand. Sexist ass.

I zone out the moment Mr. Spencer starts talking about photosynthesis (at least I think that's what he's talking about) and I start doodling idly in the margins of my notebook. Every few seconds I glance over at Artie's desk, wondering where he is. Sick at home seems like the most logical explanation, but that doesn't actually make me feel any better because now I'm wondering how sick he is and what he's got. If he'd just answer his stupid phone I wouldn't be so worried. The last time he'd stayed home sick he'd at least texted me.

I look up long enough to check that Mr. Spencer hasn't written any test dates on the board before I go back to scribbling. I know I should probably be paying attention since Artie's not here to take notes that I can study off of later, but I can't bring myself to do it. Besides, Artie's really good at science so he probably knows all this already, so I'll just get him to tutor me later, like usual. It's just like what I do for him in history, about the only class where I understand more than him.

It feels weird, sitting in this class without Artie next to me. He hasn't missed school for a couple months now, except that one time he had a dentists' appointment but even then it'd been in the afternoon so he'd been here for this class. I suppose it's one of those things where you don't realise how much someone is there until they're gone. Normally he'd be sitting next to me, taking notes in that cool, slanting handwriting, and every so often he'd glance over at me and smile. Sometimes we'd make faces at Mr. Spencer when his back was turned, both of us biting down on our knuckles to muffle our laughing. Most of the time we just ended up passing notes whenever Mr. Spencer wasn't looking.

It was in this classroom, through one of our usual note passing routines, when Artie'd asked me out on our first date. My doodling stops as I submerge myself in the memory of that night we'd spent drag racing wheelchairs around the school. It hadn't ended the greatest, with the whole stutter thing, but everything before that had felt so perfect. We hadn't tried dating again since then, but once we had managed to make it back to being friends again everything seemed to have fallen back into place. And those feelings, the way I'd felt when we'd kissed, none of that had gone away.

I jump and am pulled out of my daydream (which would have made me blush if anyone else had seen it) when my phone vibrates in my pocket and I quickly silence it, looking around guiltily. No one's looking so I slip it out under the desk and my heart leaps when I read the screen.

_Incoming call: Artie_

Even though I'm undeniably grateful to finally be getting some form of contact from my missing best friend, I feel that sense of foreboding I'd woken up with creep back into me. Why is he calling me instead of texting? He knows I'm in class. Whatever it is, I know it can't be good.

"Mr. Spencer," I say abruptly, interrupting him mid-sentence. He scowls and I feel everyone's eyes turn to me but I swallow my nerves and plough on. "Can I go to the restroom?" He still looks royally pissed but he nods and turns his back on me again. Once he's facing away, I grab all of my things and rush out of the door. I don't plan on coming back to class, not after how much trouble I've already gotten into in this first fifteen minutes. I'll hide out in the library or choir room if I have to.

Once I'm in the hall, I hurriedly jog down to the end of the hall where I won't be overheard by my teacher and answer the phone. "What's up, Artie? Where are you and why haven't you been answering my texts?" I ask frantically.

"Tina, this is Judy, Artie's mum." My brow furrows in confusion and worry. She sounds really worn, which makes me even more scared than I was because I know she's the one Artie inherited his perpetual optimism from. If she's not in a really good mood than…oh God I don't want to think about it. "I'm sorry, I know you're supposed to be in school, I was just going to leave a message. I saw all of your texts on his phone and I just – I thought you'd want to know. That he'd want you to know."

"What is it?" I ask and that creepy feeling I'd woken up with is back in full force now, and I think it's brought along reinforcements too. I almost don't want to know what she's going to say but I literally stop breathing, afraid of missing a single word. Her answer makes my heart freeze up in my chest.

"Artie's in the hospital." Saying that my head feels like it's just been bashed over with a cast iron skillet would be a bit of an understatement considering how much I'm blown out of reality right now. I feel my knees give out under me and they hit the ground hard, but I'm not focusing on that right now. "He's just gone into surgery and we're really not sure how things are going to turn out."

I'm clutching my phone so tight I think it might break. Artie – in the hospital. For some reason my brain can't put the two halves of that sentence together. Artie and hospital just don't go together. He's indestructible. Despite his chair, or maybe because of it, Artie's so strong and the sorts of things that affect other people don't affect him. He's always been sort of invincible in my mind. Nothing gets to Artie, nothing at all. So how is this even possible?

I don't even think about what I'm going to say next, because it just seems like the only possible response. It's like some sort of reflex or intuition and it slips from my mouth with a sort of tough, iron resolve I didn't even know I had.

"I'm on my way."


	2. The Marathon From Hell

After I hang up the phone I sit on the floor of the hallway for a while, letting my reeling brain catch up with the rest of my body. There's a sort of numbness in my chest and something in the rational part of my brain tells me it's shock. It also tells me that if I don't get a move on and get my ass to that hospital before it wears off then I'm going to wind up a hysterical mess somewhere between here and there.

Hauling myself up, ignoring the twinge in my kneecaps which I'm sure are bruised, I bolt out of the school before any teachers can come across me and try to send me back to class. It's not until I'm out in the parking lot that I realise an issue I hadn't considered: how I'm getting  _to_  the hospital. I turn in the direction of my house before remembering there's not a car there I can borrow; Mom's taken hers to work and Dad's is at the airport parking garage in Cleveland. There's always the bus, but who knows when the next bus heading for Lima General will come through and there's no way I can just stand around waiting in a bus shelter while my best friend's in the OR.

Gritting my teeth, there's really only one solution. Without even considering the irrationality of what I'm doing, I take off running toward Main Street, which I can follow all the way up to the hospital. I'm suddenly feeling really grateful that I only had the time to put on my trainers this morning instead of the boots I'd been planning on. And in a way, the motion of running is actually relaxing. I'm so close to panic that the simple act of doing  _something_  keeps it at bay. I try not to think of Artie or what could be happening with him right now. All I focus on is not stopping.

I've gotten most of the three miles between McKinley and Lima General, and I can see the hospital looming up ahead of me. I ignore the fact that my lungs are burning and my legs are starting to ache. I fix my eyes on the huge white building.

Someone steps out of a business next to me and I hurriedly dodge to the side to avoid running into them. My ankle turns funny underneath me and I can't catch my balance, hitting the ground on all fours and buckling to my side. Before the person can even finish asking if I'm all right, I'm on my feet and moving again. The stinging in my ankle is pushed aside for the fact that the hospital is only a block away.

I keep going all the way into the reception desk and the nurse behind the counter is giving me a half-concerned, half-terrified look. I lean against the countertop, trying to catch enough breath to ask her where Artie's at, and the nurse is asking me "What's the matter, miss?"

"Tina!" I spin on my heel to see Mr. Abrams get up from one of the plastic chairs in the reception area. He has Artie's same big blue eyes and it sends a horrified pang through my chest. What if I never see those eyes again? I try not to think about that as I stumble over to meet him. He looks at me in alarm. "Did you run the whole way here?"

"Mum – has – the – car," I gasp out, clutching the stitch in my side. "Where – is – he?"

"You should have said something, I'd have come to get you. Come on, come with me." Mr. Abrams looks like he'd still like to say more about my sudden interest in cross country sprinting, but he shakes his head. Placing a hand on the back of my shoulder, he leads me down some of the scary blank, utilitarian halls.

"Is – is – is he – he-?" I am still breathing so heavily I am having a nightmare of a time getting a sentence out.  _This is even worse than having a stutter,_  I think in awe.

Thankfully, Mr. Abrams speaks 'winded and panicking teenager.' "He's still in surgery," he says grimly. "We haven't heard anything yet." Not exactly the sort of reassuring answer I'd been hoping for.

I'm pretty much blind to everything else in the world as we make our way farther into the hospital. The weird thing about these hallways is that they never seem to stop twisting, and we're always turning another corner. And they never end so we can just freakin' be there already. The only plus is that the time gives me the chance to get my breathing back to relative normal.

"Oh Tina!" I look up and manage to focus on Mrs. Abrams' face, pale and tear-stained. She summons up a faint smile for me. We're in another waiting room like the one at the reception area, and Mrs. Abrams stands up from a chair. She walks over and touches my other shoulder, steering me into one of the chairs that lines the room.

I sink into it gratefully; my legs are shaking, my knees sting, and my ankle is starting to throb. I can feel the adrenaline of my fear seeping out and as it does I become aware of all the places I'm hurting. Besides my legs, my chest feels unnaturally tight, every breath sharp, and my left arm is stinging where it scraped the cement when I fell. Not to mention, I've got a monstrous headache forming. And the worst part is that the numbness of shock is wearing off and I can feel the panic rising in me.

Mrs. Abrams rubs a hand over my back, her smile sad. "I'm so sorry for panicking you, honey, I just – I knew he'd want you to be here."

"Th-thank you," I ask and my nerves make my stutter come back for real. "What - wh-what happened?"

"Pulmonary embolism." That sounds like a term I might have heard before but I've got absolutely no inkling as to what it means other than it sounds bad. Mrs. Abrams must notice I'm clueless because she says, "It's when a blood clot gets into your heart and lungs." Okay I'm no doctor but even I can tell that having a hunk of congealed blood pushed through your vital organs is not a good thing. "He's prone to the clots in his legs because of his paralysis, but we never expected something like this. He seemed fine one minute and then…" She trailed off with a haunted look in her eyes.

I look down at my hands, not able to keep her gaze anymore, and see that they are shaking. My pulse still feels ridiculously loud in my ears as I try to digest what she's telling me. "Will he-?"

"We're not really sure," Mrs. Abrams says and I can hear her voice starting to get emotional, her maternal strength façade fading away pretty fast. "It depends on how things go in surgery."

This has got to be the least encouraging answer in the history of suck-ish answers. Now that I'm just sitting and waiting, helplessness floods into me and the last of my shock disappears. The true terror of the situation attacks me like a rabid animal. Artie, my best friend in the whole world, is behind those white doors marked 'OR' getting his chest whacked open and no one has any idea if we'll ever see him alive again.

Before I'm even aware of it, I'm crying and shaking so bad I'm almost slipping out of my chair. I don't pull away when Mrs. Abrams puts a hand to the side of my neck and guides my head onto her shoulder, and she wraps me in her arms, letting me cry on her. I feel so helpless, like I little kid, and I force myself tighter into her embrace. I can feel her tears dripping onto my neck, and a few seconds later Mr. Abrams has knelt down in front of us and puts an arm around both of us so we're all crying together. It doesn't make anything less scary, if anything it makes me more scared because the strong adults are just as freaked as I am, but it does feel good to not feel alone.

It seems like it's been hours when I'm finally out of tears and we eventually all pull apart. Mr. Abrams goes to sit in the chair on the other side of his wife, taking her hand. I straighten up in the chair, wiping my face on the backs of my hands. Mrs. Abrams glances sideways at me and gives a watery chuckle, fishing a tissue out of her purse and handing it to me. "Your make-up is a mess, sweetie," she informs me. I look down at my hands and realise they are black with streaked eyeliner. "There's a bathroom right over there," she says kindly and points at a door in the hall outside the room.

"Thanks," I say and stand up. It's only now that I'm on my feet again that I feel the real agony of my legs. My ankle is trembling like crazy under me, but I manage to hide my limp as I go into the restroom. Once inside, I take the time to get a good look at my legs. My bare knees are skinned and bright red, already turning black in the middles, but thankfully they aren't bleeding. Over the rim of my trainers, my right ankle looks swollen.

Shaking my head, I turn to look in the mirror and almost flinch back at the sight of my reflection. My eyes are puffy and red, my skin is really pale, and my make-up is running in streaky lines down my face and even onto my neck. I know there's no point in redoing it, because I can still feel the shuddering in my chest that warns me I could very well start crying again at any moment, so I turn on the sink and wash off my face. When I look up at myself again I look weird without make-up, not to mention that I sort of look like I'm twelve. But at least I don't look like the fifth member of KISS anymore, so that's definitely something.

Taking the extra time to wash off my knees, hands, and the rough red scrape on my left arm, I finally judge myself as suitable as I'm gonna get. It's not like I've ever really been as obsessed with my looks as the other girls my age anyway. Besides, there are just a couple things that seem way more important right now, or really just the one thing. Or one person.

It's not until I'm back out in the waiting room that I realise I'm still hauling around my schoolbag. When I sit down beside Mrs. Abrams again I take it off and drop it onto the floor under my chair. Mr. Abrams is gone, but he comes back ten minutes later with three steaming cups of coffee. I have never been so thankful for a hot drink in my life, and I don't even mind that I scald my tongue as I take a drink. None of us talk, all of us too tense but every time the doors to the ER open all three of us simultaneously look up and then down in disappointment when the doctors walk over to someone else.

This anxiety is driving me insane and it takes all of my will power to not get up and start pacing circles in the middle of the room just to be doing something. I check my phone and see that I've got a concerned text from both Mercedes and Kurt, asking if I really did ditch Mr. Spencer's class and where I'm at and why I'm not answering. I'm really not up to explaining to them, not right now when I don't really have any definite news to give. Shutting off the power to my phone, since I'm pretty sure there's some sort of rule saying I'm not actually supposed to have it on in the hospital, I stuff it back into my bag.

My hand brushes something else and I pull out my iPod, gratefully stuffing the headphones into my ears and turning on the music. Music has always been my solace. This time it fails me; almost every single song on there is one I got from Artie or one that we're singing in Glee or just one that reminds me of Artie somehow. It's not even five minutes later when I bury the player back inside my bag in frustration.

They have to know something by now, don't they? He's got to have been in there for ages now, although a glance at the clock tells me it's not actually near as long as it feels. How long does surgery usually take? I don't know, I've never actually been in an OR waiting room before. The only time I've been in a hospital was when we went to see my grandma before she died, and that's not exactly giving me the most optimistic outlook.

I'm not really religious (my family's religious views are a weird blur because both of my parents belong to different religions but neither of them are really active members), but as I sit there and stare determinedly at the plain white doors with the stupid little narrow windows in them, I'm praying. Please, whatever god there is, please oh  _please_  just let Artie be okay. I'll do anything, as long as he's okay.

I jump as the doors open and I try not to let my hopes get up. The female doctor looks around the room and then her eyes land on our group and she heads for us. In a flash, all three of us are on our feet. Mrs. Abrams grabs my hand and I squeeze it back.

The doctor gives me a bit of a confused look and I can guess why (a family of white people and a random Asian) before she looks back at Artie's parents. "Are you the Abrams?" the doctor asks when she gets to us, taking off the crinkly paper shield over her mouth. She looks sort of happy and I feel my heart jump. Please, please, please…

"How's Artie?" Mr. Abrams asks immediately.

"The surgery went well," the doctor says and Mrs. Abrams is squeezing my hand so tight I can't feel my fingers anymore even though I'm squeezing right back. "There was a bit of trouble draining his lungs, his left lung collapsed from the pressure, but it was fixed easily and it shouldn't be any more trouble. Other than that, everything went really, really well. Your son is very strong. As long as no complications come up, he should make a full recovery."

"Can we see him?" Mrs. Abrams asks in a small voice.

"He's just coming out of post-op right now, and they're moving him up to a room in ICU as we speak," the doctor says. "He's still under the anaesthesia and we expect him to be for several more hours, but you should be able to go up to his room. I'll have a nurse come get you when he's settled in."

My head feels really light and I think for a moment I'm going to faint. If it weren't for Mrs. Abrams holding onto my hand so tight I'm pretty sure I would have. Either way, I slump down into my seat and fight back another wave of tears. Artie's okay. He's going to be fine. I glance skyward and think, _Thanks_.


	3. Injuries, Invasions, and Insomnia

Ten minutes later a nurse comes over to give us directions to Artie's room. Once Mr. and Mrs. Abrams know where we're going (since I'm clueless because I've never set foot in this hospital before), I grab my backpack and climb to my feet, ready to follow. I take one step and a lancing pain shoots through my ankle. I yelp and stagger sideways into the nurse, who barely stops me from hitting the floor, which is sort of a surprise since she's the same size as me.

"Tina, are you all right?" Mr. Abrams asks, and instantly both of Artie's parents are at my side while the nurse holds me up. I wince and look down at my ankle, seeing that it's swollen even more than before.

"I'm fine, just my ankle, tweaked it on the way here," I assure him but when I try to take another step and almost buckle sideways again I'm pretty sure no one believes me anymore.

"Why didn't you say anything before?" Mrs. Abrams asks half-hysterically.

"Didn't hurt this bad before," I admit, blushing bright red. They steer me back into the chair and the nurse kneels down, taking off my shoe. I try really hard not to make any noise as it makes my ankle sting, but that doesn't stop me grimacing.

"It looks like a light sprain," the nurse says, poking and prodding at every single spot that hurts repeatedly. It takes all my concentration to not kick her. "Stay right here and I'll get something to bandage it up." When the nurse heads off Mrs. Abrams sits down in the seat by me again.

"You don't have to wait for me," I tell her. "Go on ahead, I'll catch up."

"We're not going to leave you like this, honey," Mrs. Abrams says but I can tell by the look in her eyes that she wants nothing more but to run all the way up Artie's room.

Apparently Mr. Abrams notices this too because he puts a hand on her shoulder and says, "Judy, you go on ahead, I'll stay with Tina." She looks like she might argue again but he squeezes her shoulder and says, "Tell Artie we're coming, he'll want to know."

There's not much argument to that one (apart from the obvious argument that Artie's under anaesthesia and won't hear a word she tells him, but I don't mention that) and Mrs. Abrams nods, gives my hand another squeeze, and then leaves. Mr. Abrams sits down beside me and smiles. "I can't believe you really ran all the way here on a sprained ankle," he says and there's a mixture of exasperation and awe in his voice.

"Not the whole way," I say. "I only tripped about two blocks away, it wasn't that far."

Mr. Abrams laughs and shakes his head, looking down at my ankle and frowning. "That looks pretty bad though," he says sympathetically. "How didn't you notice?"

"I'm not really sure," I say, following his gaze. My ankle doesn't even look like mine anymore, because it's about twice its normal size and faintly purpled. "Adrenaline, maybe?"

"Yeah, maybe," Mr. Abrams agrees. The nurse comes back and Mr. Abrams keeps a reassuring hand on my back while she wraps my ankle in those elasticy bandages. She's also carrying a plastic bag of ice that she hands to me.

"You're going to need to be really careful for a while," the nurse tells me. "Try to walk on it as little as possible, stick to crutches if you do have to go anywhere. Put that ice on it for about fifteen minutes, and keep it elevated when you can. If you behave yourself, it should be better in a week or so."

"Thanks," I say. I accept my shoe and sock when she hands them to me and I stuff them into my backpack.

"Let me go get you a pair of crutches," the nurse says, standing up, but Mr. Abrams shakes his head.

"Don't worry about it, I've got something better," he says. He looks at me and says, "Stay right here, I'll be right back," and then walks away. I watch him go, wondering what he's up to, but I settle back into the chair to wait. Not like I can really do anything else. The nurse returns to the desk at the edge of the room, but I can see that she's keeping an eye on me.

Ten minutes later Mr. Abrams comes back into the waiting room, pushing a wheelchair in front of him. I recognise the lighted wheels instantly and I am both smiling and tearing up at the same time. He brought me Artie's chair.

"No use making you pay for crutches from the hospital," he says when he stops the chair in front of me.

"Are you sure?" I ask hesitantly, staring at the chair. This is Artie's chair. Somehow using his chair feels sort of like – I don't know – an invasion of privacy or stealing or something like that.

Mr. Abrams looks like he can tell what I'm thinking judging by the smile on his face. I wonder vaguely if he's got that same talent for reading people's emotions that Artie's got. "We both know he'd want it," Mr. Abrams says calmly. "Especially if it's to help you. Artie'd learn to walk on his hands for you."

I try really hard not to blush (and fail) but I nod. Standing carefully with Mr. Abrams' help, I settle down into Artie's chair and pull my feet up on the footrests, wedging the bag of ice between the swollen side of my ankle and the side bar. Mr. Abrams takes my backpack and hangs it over the handles like Artie usually does with his. It feels both really weird and oddly comforting in knowing that I'm in the place where Artie spends so much of his life. There's something in the blinking coloured lights under me and the faded old music note stickers on the left arm that makes me feel like he's here with me.

Mr. Abrams starts pushing me up to the elevators, despite my arguments that I'm capable of pushing myself, and we ride up silently to the third floor. We go to the doors marked 'ICU' and get stopped by the receptionist outside.

"We're here for Artie – er, Arthur Abrams," Mr. Abrams explains and the receptionist glances at me and raises a sceptical eyebrow.

"Sorry sir, but the ICU is family only," she says and nods at me.

My heart sinks like a stone. All this time, and now I'm still not going to get to see him. I want to argue and fight and complain and cry all at the same time. I put my hands on the wheels of the chair, ready to turn away, but Mr. Abrams is still holding tightly onto the handles of the chair.

"We  _are_  family," he says coolly. I almost look up at him in surprise before realising that could ruin whatever he's doing. I don't want him to get in trouble for lying for me, but I don't know how to tell him that without causing a scene. And if I'm honest with myself, I'm hoping it works because I really  _need_ to see Artie and know he's okay.

"Really?" the woman asks sceptically.

"Yes, I'm Artie's father and this is my daughter, Tina," Mr. Abrams explains and puts a hand on my shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "I can swear it; she's part of our family."

The woman purses her lips thoughtfully but his act must be convincing enough, or maybe she just pities me because I'm in a wheelchair with a bound up ankle, but she nods and presses a button. The doors to the ICU open and Mr. Abrams smiles at her and then pushes me through ahead of him.

"Thank you," I say quietly, tilting my head back to look up at him.

"It's no problem, Tina," he says and smiles at me. "Besides, it wasn't really a lie; you pretty much are family." I try really hard not to let my eyes well up again at that. My eyes still sting from all the crying I'd done earlier.

We find our way to the room number the nurse downstairs had given us, and when we get to the door I see Mrs. Abrams sitting in a chair beside a hospital bed. She glances at us and smiles, taking in the sight of me in Artie's chair before smiling wider, and then her eyes move back to the bed. I follow her gaze and my chest feels like it's been crushed up in a vice. "Oh Artie…"

The figure lying in that bed looks so little like the Artie I know it's scary. His skin is a sickly pale and there's absolutely no light to his face. His glasses are gone and his eyes are closed so I can't even see that familiar blue. His lips, also really pale, are in a limp frown, and the hair along his forehead is drooping and looks stringy, like it's been doused with slushie. There's a plastic tube running under his nose along with what must be a dozen or so stuck into the back of his hand. No suspenders or sweater vests or fingerless gloves, just a pale blue-grey smock and a white blanket. Everything about the sight of him looks dull and bland.

He looks  _lifeless_.

I roll up to the side of the bed, reaching up to grab Artie's hand with both of mine, being careful of the IVs. His skin is colder than usual, but not enough that it makes me really worried. Artie's hands were always really warm, mostly because of how much he has to use them and because of the gloves. Everything about Artie was always usually warm; his skin whenever he'd touched me, his smile, his eyes, his lips when we'd kissed. This Artie looks like he hasn't known warmth in a long time.

I think of the Artie I know, the one who's always full of energy and enthusiasm, smiling at everything and making jokes of even the worst situations. Thinking of that Artie and looking at the one in the bed in front of me makes the tears come again and I don't even try to stop them this time.

All I'd prayed for was to see him alive again, but this doesn't feel like it counts. He's alive, I know that. The heart monitor beeping out a monotonous rhythm in the corner is a good reminder of that. But he doesn't look alive. I need to see his eyes and his smile and hear his voice. Only then will I be sure he's really still here.

Mr. and Mrs. Abrams are talking to each other, sitting together on the other side of the bed, but I don't pay any attention to them. I lean down to lock the wheels on the chair, still keeping one hand on Artie's at all times, and then settle myself in for the wait. I'm going to be here when he wakes up.

I lean forward and kiss the back of his hand, hoping that subconsciously he will feel it and know I'm here. Artie's hands are like the centre of his physical being now; I've been around him long enough to have noticed that. Being able to feel is important to him and he's told me before that the nerves in his hands are extra sensitive now that he's paralysed. I have seen the way that when things interest him he will immediately reach out to touch them, sometimes running his fingers over things thoughtfully when no one's watching him. If there's any way to let him know he's not alone, it'll be through his hands.

Keeping my mouth against the back of his hand, I whisper, "Come back to me, Artie. I'm not going anywhere." Then I tilt my head, cheek resting on his fingers, so that I can see his face, determined that I'll be able to see his eyes the moment he wakes up.

And my eyes are not closing, no matter how it looks like it. I will not be falling asleep no matter how tired I feel. Sure, it's been a long day, with all the panicking and the crying and of course all that awful running, but that doesn't mean I will be going to sleep. It's only been a half hour since we got into Artie's room, I have to stay awake long enough to know that he's going to wake up. I tighten my grip on his hand and keep watching his face, even if it's through my lashes. I'm only resting my eyes, that's all, because they still burn from crying. But I'm not falling asleep, definitely not. Nope…not gonna…sleep…


	4. Dreams and Reality

I blink around bemusedly, trying to figure out where I am. The colours are all pale and white and grey, and everything's sort of fuzzy like I'm looking through foggy glass. Everything, that is, except one thing. There's a slumped figure a few feet ahead of me that seems to be ultra-focused and a lot darker than the bleached surroundings. It takes a second for me to realise it's a person, sitting up with their head bowed. I can hear a shaky, shuddery noise that sounds sort of pained and scared.

"Hey, are you okay?" I call out.

The figure lifts its head and I gasp. The face is twisted up in a grimace, the most agonised expression I've ever seen, but there is absolutely no mistaking those blue eyes. "Tina," Artie rasps, and even his voice sounds wounded.

"Artie!" I shout and I try to move to him but I can't. I look down, wondering why my body won't move, and see that I'm sitting. Closer inspection shows me I'm actually sitting in a wheelchair, Artie's wheelchair to be specific. Why am I in his chair and he's not?

"Tina." His voice sounds weaker and I look up in horror. He's doubling over, one hand pressed against his chest like it hurts. "Please, Tina, I need help."

I try to reach for the wheels of the chair, intending to roll to him, but my hands can't reach. When I look down again I see my hands are tied to the armrests with black cords. I don't have any idea how it happened, but no matter how hard I tug I can't get my hands free. All the while Artie's calling to me, his voice getting quieter and quieter, and more and more desperate.

"Tina, please," he begs. I watch with tears in my eyes as his hand tightens into a claw and his fingernails dig into his chest. His face is now so pained it looks like a snarl, and there are tears in his eyes and on his cheeks. He meets my gaze and in it I see that same betrayed look he had when I'd told him the truth about my stutter. "Why won't you help me?"

"I'm trying," I scream frantically, pulling harder at the ropes around my hands but they won't budge. "Artie, I'm trying, please."

Artie lets out an agonised noise and I stare in horror as he falls over on his side, clawing all the more desperately at his chest. I'm shouting his name but he's not responding anymore, his entire body tensing and seizing with the pain he must be feeling in his chest. When he goes limp, he rolls his head to look at me and I've never seen a more hopeless look than the one he gives me.

"Tina," he says, his voice hardly even a whisper. He moves one hand, reaching out for me, but no matter how I try I can't grab it. "Please, Tina…" It's almost like watching in slow motion as his body seizes again, a strangled scream escaping him, and then suddenly he's completely still. His eyes are still staring at me but they're blank and empty.

"Artie," I breathe, for a moment too stunned to even fight anymore. He doesn't even blink and my heart stops. He can't be – he's not… "Artie! No, Artie, no, you can't!" I keep fighting against the chair, trying desperately to get to him. I have to reach him and make sure he's not really gone. He can't be; it's not fair! "Artie, Artie, no!"

"Tina." The voice is a whisper, more like a breath. It's his voice, but it's not coming from his body. I look around for the source, but there's nothing around us. When I look back at the floor, he's gone.

"Artie?" I ask in terror. Where is he? Why isn't he here? I have to find him.

"Tina, shh, I'm here." I still can't see him, but his voice is floating around me. There's the lightest touch against my cheek, warm and comforting. I look sideways but there's still nothing there. "Tina?"

"Artie," I say desperately, trying not to cry. Why can't I see him? Is he a ghost, is that what's going on here? I can still feel the touch on my cheek, and a warm grasp slips into my left hand as well, and he keeps talking in a low, soothing voice.

"Tee, you can wake up."

Wake up? I blink in confusion, shaking my head. I'm not asleep, am I? I swore I wasn't going to fall asleep, that I would stay awake for him. Wait, wasn't that in a hospital room? This place isn't the hospital, is it? I blink a few more times and I feel a pounding throb forming in my head. Groaning, I close my eyes tightly, and when I open them the room is gone.

Instead I can see a pair of big blue eyes squinting at me.

"Artie?" I ask, trying to shake off the last of the dream. I look around and I'm in a hospital room, Artie on the bed beside me. I'm sitting in Artie's wheelchair, but my hands are free, my right one in my lap and my left one on the bed, wrapped around his IV-riddled one.

"You okay, Tee?" he asks. His voice is hoarse and quiet, and it's slurring slightly like he's still half-asleep, but his gaze is focused. "You were having a nightmare."

"Oh Artie," I gasp and I jump to my feet, forgetting for a moment that my ankle is screwed up. I have almost thrown myself onto Artie before it occurs to me that's probably a bad idea. He's just had his chest sliced open and me crashing down on that would most likely not feel good. Instead I lean forward, put a hand on either side of his face, and press my lips to his forehead.

"Hey, Tee, s'okay," Artie says and the hand not attached to cords touches my arm. I rest my forehead on his and it's only then I realise I've let a few tears fall onto his skin. He tries to rub my forearm comfortingly but he must still be tired because his fingers are dragging kind of limply across my skin and his grip isn't very tight.

"Oh God, Artie, I thought you were dead," I say and the tremor in my voice makes me notice that I'm shaking.

Artie squeezes my arm and gives a small laugh. "You're not gettin' rid of me that easy," he says and I can't help but laugh. Lifting my face, I meet his eyes and he's smiling at me. And suddenly it all comes together; that's Artie, the one I've been looking for since I got that phone call this morning. He's really back.

I bend over and kiss his cheek, before sitting down in the wheelchair again. My ankle is protesting at being stood on and I remind myself I'm going to have to stop jumping up like that if I want to be able to walk next week. I look up and Artie hasn't taken his gaze off me, even though he's squinting.

"Do you need your glasses?" I ask, looking around for them.

"They broke in this whole mess," Artie says and smiles. "Mum and Dad went home to get some things for me and they said they'd bring my other pair." He glances at the IVs running down to his hands and frowns slightly. "Hey Tee, can you come 'round to this side? Looking at all these stupid tubes is sort of freaking me out."

I smile as he glares at the IVs again and unlock the wheels of his chair to roll around to his other side. Once I'm pulled in as close to the bed as I can manage, I fold my arms on the edge of the bed and rest my chin on them.

"My chair?" Artie asks, lifting an eyebrow curiously. "I'm gone one day and you steal my chair. Kinda stalkerish, don't you think?"

"Your dad got it for me. I sort of twisted my ankle," I admit, blushing again. Not wanting to talk about it, I change subjects quickly. "How are you feeling?" I ask, looking him over. There's a bit more colour in his face, and although his smile is a little slack and his eyes are somewhat dimmer, there's so much more life in his face that there's no question he's here.

"Pretty good right now, but that's probably because they just gave me some morphine about fifteen minutes ago," he says and grins. "It's sort of making my head feel really weird though."

"I bet." I smile and Artie's freed left hand slides over to rest on one of mine. We lapse into quiet for a while and I just watch him. It's insane to think that just hours ago there was a possibility I'd never be talking to him again. That he might be gone and just like in my dream I'd be completely helpless to stop it.

"Did it hurt?" I ask before I can stop myself. I can't get the thought of dream-Artie clawing at his chest and writhing on the floor out of my head no matter how I try. I'm glad Artie understands me so well because I don't have to elaborate any further than that.

"Have you ever been hit by a truck?" he asks conversationally, like it's the most normal thing to ask someone. I smile at his tone and shake my head. "Me neither, but I'd imagine it feels something like this morning. It was kind of weird, because I was fine one minute. I was getting ready for school, and then all of a sudden it felt like my chest was getting crushed. I honestly thought I was having a heart attack and all I could think was I'm too young for that. After that I couldn't breathe, which was the really scary part. I remember falling out of my chair. My dad found me after that, and I can't really remember much more. I was pretty out of it; it's hard to focus when you can't breathe."

I squeeze his hand and he rubs his thumb back and forth over my upper arm. It takes me a second but I notice that his thumb is moving perfectly in time with the tempo of the heart monitor beeping. I smile, because that's so classic Artie; he has a habit of tapping his fingers to the tempo of whatever beats he can hear, usually without noticing he's doing it. It's reassuring to have something so normal in the middle of all this.

"I'm glad you're okay," I say and Artie turns his gaze back to me, smiling.

"Me too," he says, squeezing my arm. He is blinking really slowly and I can tell he's trying to stay awake.

"Go to sleep, Artie," I say with a laugh.

Artie grins at me sheepishly and yawns, wincing as his chest expands with the air. "Yeah, maybe," he says. I catch him biting down on his lower lip, a tell-tale sign that he's nervous. He sees me watching him and blushes. "Tee, could you – can you stay here till I fall asleep? Hospitals freak me out."

"I'm not going anywhere," I promise. Artie smiles and lets his head sink back into the pillow. His eyes close, but he keeps his grip on my hand. I lay my head down on my arms again and let my own eyes close.

"Tee," Artie says and I open my eyes. His are still closed and if his mouth wasn't moving I'd think he was sleeping already. "You know what the last thing I remember thinking before everything went all fuzzy and dark was?"

"Hmm, what?"

There's the slightest curl to the corner of his lips. "Tina's gonna kill me for leaving her alone in science."


	5. Too Much Explaining

It didn't even take ten minutes for the morphine to put Artie back to sleep. His parents come back not long after that and Mr. Abrams offers to take me down to the cafeteria to get something to eat if I need. I shake my head and tell him I'm only thirsty, so I'll just go down to the drinking fountain down the hall. Both of the Abrams adults are watching me anxiously as I roll myself out, and as sort of annoying as it is, it's also nice to have people so concerned about me. My own parents aren't really home often enough to worry. Don't get me wrong, I love them and they aren't bad parents, really, just _absent_  parents.

When I'm out of the room I head for the ICU exit, stopping at the reception desk on my way. "You'll let me back in if I leave, right?" I ask her nervously. "I just need some lunch before my – brother wakes up again." I had almost forgotten that Mr. Abrams had called me his daughter, and therefore I need to pretend Artie's my brother.

"Are you really related?" the woman asks with a raised eyebrow.

Time to draw on my years of acting practice. "I'm adopted," I say in a sad voice. "My parents died when I was four and the Abrams adopted me into their family two years after that." I manage to make my lower lip quiver just slightly and take in an audibly shaky breath before fixing her with a determined stare. "We're not blood related, but they  _are_  my family."

The woman looks really uncomfortable. "I'm sorry dear, I didn't mean to sound so rude about it," she says. "It's just, you wouldn't believe how many people lie about being related to get back there. Of course, you get your lunch and I'll make sure you get let back in."

"Thank you," I say, giving her a bright smile, and then roll away before I can start laughing. The one good thing that comes from years of hiding behind a persona so no one would know how I really feel is that I have nearly perfected my ability to fake any sort of emotion. Even though it's a talent that's gotten me into trouble before, it still comes in useful sometimes. I laugh as I think what Artie would've thought of my performance. He probably would've called me Rachel Berry.

I go into the waiting room down the hall from the ICU and park my chair in a corner where I'll be out of the way for a moment. Digging my phone out of my backpack, I turn it back on. Once it is on I'm instantly besieged by all of the texts I've missed. I have four more from Kurt, six from Mercedes, one from a curious Rachel (how did she get my number?) as well as three missed calls from Mercedes. When I listen to the voicemails she left they are all along the lines of: "Alright girl, I dunno what the hell is up but you better get your skinny ass on this phone and tell me what's goin' on." The final one has the addition of, "And you keep freakin' us out like this and I _will_  take you to the carpet."

Smiling at that, I delete all of the messages and then open a text to her. I suppose I really do owe her an explanation by now. I quickly type out: " _Sry M, Arties in hospital. Hes OK now, but tell Mr S we wont be at glee. Call u ltr w/ deets. Thnx."_ Nodding, I send it and then dial my mom's work number.

She doesn't answer, which doesn't really surprise me because she spends most of her day in conferences and stuff, so I leave a message. "Hey Mum, it's Tina. Look, Artie's in the hospital. He's okay now but I'm gonna stay here with him so don't freak when you get home and I'm not there. I'll call you again later when you are off work. Love you."

Satisfied that all of those things are taken care of, I turn my phone off again. I am sticking it back in my bag when I spot the vending machine in the corner of the waiting room. When I told Mr. Abrams I wasn't hungry it was a lie, because it's well past lunch hour now and since I missed breakfast this morning while looking for my homework I'm starving. I just didn't want to go clear down to the cafeteria with an escort to keep an eye on me; I want to get back to Artie's room quickly.

I roll over and fish some change out of my backpack, and over the next five minutes I enjoy a hasty lunch of stale Doritos, powdered donettes, and a bottled water that's got way too many minerals in it and tastes like plastic. There's not really time for much better since I told the Abrams I was only going down the hall.

The reception desk woman gives me a sad smile as I roll up and she opens the doors for me without hesitation. I have to bite down on the inside of my cheek to stop myself from busting up laughing. When I get back to Artie's room, Mr. and Mrs. Abrams have taken up their chairs on the side of Artie's bed again. They stop talking when I come in, which makes me paranoid enough already, but then there's something almost mischievous in Mr. Abrams smile and an odd twinkle in Mrs. Abrams eyes that makes me pretty positive they were talking about me. For the dozenth time I fail not to blush.

"Did you get to talk to him before he fell asleep?" Mrs. Abrams asks when I roll over to them.

"Yeah, for a couple minutes," I say. "He was pretty out of it though."

"The doctors said the anaesthesia hasn't worn off all the way yet," Mr. Abrams supplies. "Hopefully the next time he wakes up he'll be a little more there."

I nod uncomfortably, because there's something really weird about the way his parents are staring at me. It makes me think that maybe I've got something really interesting written on my face. Maybe I got slushied and am so used to the feeling I didn't even notice. I looked down at my hands in my lap, trying to ignore the fact that I can feel them glancing at me every few seconds.

It's really awkward just sitting around in the room with his parents while he's asleep, because I have no idea what to talk about, but I don't want to be rude by getting out my homework or music. I wonder what Artie'd think if he saw this; he'd probably be laughing his butt off at me.

Curious, I glance up at him. He's fast asleep, his lips kind of parted. His head is turned to the side, facing the edge of the bed where his parents are sitting, and his right hand is still at the same place on the mattress where I left it when I slipped my hand out. Occasionally his fingers flex like he's trying to grab onto something. I have to admit, as innocent as he looks awake, it's nothing on how he looks asleep. It's sort of endearing.

"Tina," Mrs. Abrams says quietly so she doesn't wake Artie up, "how's your ankle?"

"Better now that I'm off it," I say. "Thanks again for letting me use Artie's chair."

"It's no problem, darling," Mrs. Abrams says. She exchanges a look with Mr. Abrams, sort of like that way Mercedes and Kurt do, before looking at me again. "I don't mean to pry, but how are things between you and Artie? I know they got rough for a bit, but it seems like they must have gotten better. Artie doesn't talk about it much."

I'm blushing so bad it feels like my face is on fire. I had not counted on getting grilled by his parents or I would have taken a much longer lunch break. Thinking about where the relationship between Artie and me stands is weird enough, let alone trying to explain it to his parents.

"We're fine," I say, for lack of a better answer. "He's my best friend. We just decided to give the dating idea a break with all things considered."

Mrs. Abrams nods and sighs. "He talks about you all the time," she says, casting a sidelong glance at her sleeping son. "We're glad he's found as good a friend as you. He doesn't get a lot of chances anymore but it's nice to know he's got someone like you to look out for him."

Okay I thought I'd been blushing before but that was nothing compared to the way I feel now. I look around, trying to come up with some sort of possible answer to that which doesn't make me sound like a complete idiot. It's hard work. Finally I just settle on twisting the hem of my skirt between my fingers.

Mr. Abrams laughs and reaches over to pat my shoulder. "Oh look, Judy, you've gone and made her all embarrassed," he says with a smile.

"Oh I'm sorry," Mrs. Abrams says quickly and flashes me an apologetic look. "It's just all of this stress; it's got me thinking funny. I was just thinking Artie's really lucky. Not many people have friends who would run all the way to the hospital for them like you did."

"It's not just me," I tell her insistently. "If I'd have had the time to tell some of the other glee kids before I left I wouldn't have been running by myself. Artie's got a lot more people who care about him than I think even he realises."

Mrs. Abrams' smile is watery, like she's on the verge of crying again, and I really hope she doesn't because it might set me off and I don't want to cry anymore right now. "That's so good to hear," she says and then leans back in her chair, still staring at me. "But thank you for being here anyway. It means a lot to him. You should have seen the way he smiled when he woke up and saw you here."

"Judy, you're doing it again," Mr. Abrams cuts in gently when my face goes beet red.

"Right, sorry, so how's Glee practice been going? Artie said you guys were getting pretty excited for Regionals," Mrs. Abrams says hastily and I latch onto the change in topic. Anything to avoid thinking about what she'd been saying about Artie and me. Those emotions are so jumbled in my head already, and she isn't making it any better. Which of course means that even why I'm telling her about our plans for our new set list, I'm thinking about Artie and me.

We'd had that fight about my stutter; he'd been mad I lied, I'd been mad he cared so much whether or not I had a disability. The fight had been tense and bitter at some points, but neither of us is very good at staying mad for long and a few weeks later it fizzled out. We both realised we missed being friends more than we hated each other, apologised, and almost instantly things went back to the way they'd been before all of it had happened.

It might possibly be extremely true that I still have a crush on Artie. That hadn't gone away despite it all. If anything it might be even stronger now. But the bottom line is that I care too much about having him in my life to risk pushing him. I'd rather have him as my best friend than try to get him into a relationship again and run the chance of losing him completely. If he wants to try dating again, he'll let me know.

Of course it doesn't stop me from hoping.


	6. Determined, or Maybe Just Stubborn

I am refusing, point blank, to leave Lima General, no matter how much the Abrams try to talk sense into me.

"You really need to go home and get some sleep, Tina," Mrs. Abrams says in a quiet voice since Artie is still zonked out. It's almost nine at night and we're all in the doorway of Artie's room, and the Abrams are getting ready to go home for the night, since both of them have to get up and go back to work tomorrow.

"I'll be fine here," I say stubbornly.

"What about school?" Mr. Abrams says reasonably.

I point down at my ankle. "I'm out on injury, I'm not going," I say. "Even if I was going home, I wouldn't be going to school in the morning. I get enough slushie facials when I'm capable of running away, no way am I making it easier for them."

"What would your parents say about this?" Mr. Abrams tries again.

"I already called my mum and told her, she was fine with it," I say. Well, fine wasn't exactly true, since she hadn't been so keen on me staying out all night to be with a guy, even if that guy is Artie and we're in a hospital, but she could tell I wasn't changing my mind and she hadn't fought me about it. That's one really cool thing about my parents; they trust me to be smart enough to take care of myself, so they don't really intervene much.

Mrs. Abrams is wringing her hands anxiously and I can tell she's debating with herself. I am determined that I'm not leaving, but I really hope that she doesn't make a big deal of it. After all, I am technically in here illegally since I'm not family, so I suppose she could tell them that and get me kicked out. I don't really see her doing something like that though, because she's not that sort of person.

"Are you sure you're up for this, Tina?" she asks and I can hear the genuine concern in her tone.

"Mrs. Abrams, of all the people in this world, Artie is the one who I am closest to," I say very sincerely. "I need to be sure that he's going to be okay. I won't be able to sleep otherwise and I'll hate myself for letting him wake up here alone." I think of the way he'd awkwardly asked me to stay with him earlier because he's afraid of hospitals and it only strengths my resolve.

There's a stiff silence for a moment. "I'll bring you some coffee when I come up in the morning," Mr. Abrams says abruptly. I smile gratefully because I can tell it's his way of giving me permission. I glance at Mrs. Abrams and she nods.

"Thank you," I say to them both. Mrs. Abrams gives me a hug and then to my surprise Mr. Abrams bends down and places a kiss on my forehead. It feels really sweet, like the way my dad used to do it while he tucked me into bed when I was really little. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight," they chorus back. "Get some sleep," Mr. Abrams adds, and then they're both gone.

I roll the wheelchair back into the room and go around to the side of the bed where I can keep an eye on Artie without the thousands of IVs in the way. The room is dark, and I pull my iPod out of my backpack, sticking a headphone into one ear. I lean my head back and listen to a few songs and then the randomised selection jumps into my Glee folder and lands on the instrumental version of "True Colours."

I turn the volume up just slightly and smile. Mr. Schue told me last week that putting this song into Regionals is a big possibility and I'm excited. I submerge myself in the music, getting a feel for it again and rehearsing the lyrics in my head since it's been a while since I've sung it. When it's over I can't stop myself from hitting repeat and this time I hum along, quietly enough that I shouldn't wake Artie. I'm singing the final verse under my breath when I realise there's a bass voice harmonising with me.

"Artie?" I ask in confusion, sitting up. In the light coming from the hall I can see that his eyes are open and he smiles.

"Hey," he says and I'm glad to hear he's sounding a lot better than before. "What time is it?"

"Just about ten now," I say, glancing past him to the clock in the hall.

Artie laughs. "Wow, talk about a power nap," he says and lifts a hand to rub his eyes. He sits up a little and tries to focus on me again.

"Oh, here," I say and I grab his glasses off the bedside table, handing them to him. Artie smiles gratefully and puts them on, blinking a few times before looking at me.

"That's so much better," he says and laughs. "You were just sort of a black and blue blur before." He looks around the room. "Where'd my parents go?"

"Home," I say and I watch his face, hoping he isn't disappointed. "Neither of them can get off work on such short notice since they both missed today, so they needed to go sleep."

"What about you?" Artie asks.

"You aren't getting rid of me that easy," I say and Artie grins.

"Touché," he says. "Thanks. For staying."

I shrug but I'm smiling. "If I'd have gone home all I've had heard was chaos from my mum about my ankle and I really don't want to listen to that. It's easier to just camp out here where she can't get to me," I say. Artie isn't fooled and I know it, but he just gives me that sincere smile and then goes along with it.

"Did you really sprain it running here?" he asks and I flush. "Dad told me earlier while you were still asleep, I just forgot with all the morphine. I can't believe you actually ran all the way here from school. That's like three miles. You hate running."

"But I don't hate you," I say. "Although if I'd know I'd trip and make an idiot of myself, I might have just waited for a bus instead." Artie laughs and shifts in bed.

"Well now that I've slept for like twenty-four hours, I'm wide awake," he says. "Did they leave the remote for that television in here? We can see if there's anything good on."

"I doubt there is," I say but I grab the remote off the table anyway and hand it to him. Artie scoots carefully to the other edge of the mattress and then pats the empty area next to him. Without hesitation, I get up and sit down on the bed, making myself comfortable next to him. As he starts coasting through channels, I prop my sore ankle on top of one of his shins and then find the button on the side of the bed that makes it move, putting us up into a reclined sitting position.

Artie settles on a classic movie channel playing an old black and white thriller. As we sit there together, comfortably laying together on the bed and watching the movie, it feels so much like what we do all the time at his house after school that for a moment I can forget where we really are. It feels really good to feel so normal. It feels even better when Artie's hand slips down off his thigh and nudges mine, and when I don't flinch away he weaves his fingers in mine.

"You were saying my name," Artie says abruptly and I glance sideways at him in the half-dark. There's a really focused look on his face and I raise an eyebrow in confusion. "When you were asleep earlier," he clarifies. "You kept saying my name, and you sounded – scared?"

"It was just a nightmare," I say and shrug, not really sure I want to talk about it. Just the mention of it has those images flashing through my head and they make me tremble.

Artie smirks. "Do I really give you nightmares?" he asks teasingly.

"If you weren't in the hospital I'd hit you," I inform him. "And yes, when you go and get all wigged out so I spend all morning wondering if you're gonna come out alive, you give me nightmares."

The moment it's out of my mouth I can tell I've said something wrong. Artie looks really guilty and he lets go of my hand to adjust his glasses, and then puts it back in his lap. "I'm sorry," he says quietly.

"Artie, I –" I pause, trying to figure out what I'm saying. "I didn't mean it like that, I'm just still freaked out. I don't blame you or anything."

"It's my fault though." Artie's voice is so heavy when he says it that I feel my heart break just a little. I try to argue, but he cuts me off. "This whole thing, it's my fault. They warned me that I needed to be careful about it, and work on my legs every night so I didn't build up clots. But it'd been so long and there were no problems, and I got – I don't know – over-confident. With everything else going on, I just figured it'd be okay if I missed one night. And one night became two, and then there were more nights I was skipping than I was actually doing what I was supposed to."

"You couldn't have known," I say.

Artie laughs but it's sarcastic and humourless. "Except I did know."

I don't know what to say to this, but I reach out for Artie's hand again. He flinches a bit but I can tell it relaxes him when I twist my fingers through his. Like I said before, Artie's really sensitive about his hands, and it's the easiest way to get him to calm down when he's upset. I think hard about what will be the best way to get Artie out of this mood he's in, and then finally I say, "Well I guess you'll know better from now on, won't you?"

The corner of Artie's mouth curves up and when he glances sideways at me he lets a small laugh escape. "You're kind of insane," he tells me but his eyes are saying thanks and that's all I need to see. We settle back into watching the movie for a few minutes and then he says, "So is your mum really fine about you being here or were you just saying that?"

"She's actually fi- wait," I look at Artie and he's smiling sheepishly and trying not to laugh. "You brat," I say. "You were awake the whole time?"

"Most of it," he concedes and looks acceptably ashamed when I hit his shoulder. I know he's faking when he rubs the spot tenderly, since I didn't hit him near hard enough to make the slightest dent in the muscles he's got built up there, and he says, "Ouch! Hey, what happened to not hitting the hospital guy?"

"That was before I found out hospital guy was eavesdropping on me," I say. In my mind there's one line of my conversation with the Abrams that keeps running through my head. … _of all the people in this world, Artie is the one who I am closest to…_ And he heard me say that. Oh God.

"Hey, it was innocent," he says. "Are you really not going to school tomorrow?"

"No, I can afford to miss a day or two," I say. "There's no way I'm suffering through another class with Mr. Spencer by myself."

"So, does that mean," Artie asks and I can hear the hopefulness in his voice, "that you'll be coming back tomorrow?"

"Artie, I'm not leaving so that would mean yes, I will be here tomorrow," I say.

"You know what I mean."

I laugh. "Yes, I think this could be a good place to hide out while I'm skipping school. The company's not so bad." I nudge his shoulder with mine, and he grins as he bumps me back.

"Thanks, Tee," Artie says.

"No problem," I answer. "Now turn up the volume, we're missing the movie." Artie laughs but obliges and we slip back into that easy comfort of watching movies together. He doesn't pull his hand out of mine, and after a while he starts brushing his thumb over the back of my hand again.

As much as I don't want to admit it, I'm really tired and everything about this is so comfortable (well except the hard mattress and of course my throbbing ankle) that I am having a hard time keeping my eyes open. I lean my head against Artie's shoulder and I feel him rest his cheek on the top of my head before I drift off.


	7. Nighttime Ninjary

My head feels really thick when I wake up and I don't want to open my eyes. All I want to do is fall back asleep again. I groan and shift my head more comfortably against the pillow.

Except that's definitely not a pillow under my cheek.

Confused, I pry my eyes open. It's still pretty dark but there's a faint bluish light in the room and in it I can see the vaguest profile of a neckline and a prominent collarbone with several narrow wires draped over it. I glance down curiously and see that I'm lying on my side in a bed, my right leg draped over another blanket covered leg which I'm pretty sure is not mine. There's a hand in one of mine, and my other hand is gripping the forearm connected to the hand.

Blinking bemusedly, I look upward and see bespectacled blue eyes smiling at me. "Morning, sunshine," Artie says with a quiet laugh.

"I fell asleep?" I ask in confusion. I don't remember actually falling asleep. We were watching a movie and I leaned my head on his shoulder, and then there was nothing.

"Yeah, pretty fast," he says. "It's cool, you had a long day and you didn't take an eight hour nap like I did." I lift my head off his shoulder and drag one of my hands through my hair, which is starting to get pretty tangled. Not wanting to fight with it, I just comb it back into a ponytail.

"What time is it?" I ask, still trying to wake up.

Artie glances out into the hall. "About three in the morning. I hope you're not cold. I was gonna try to put the blanket over you but," he blushes and smiles nervously, "I'm  _pretty_  sure I'm not wearing pants."

I stare at him for a minute until what he's said processes and then I laugh, letting my head fall onto his shoulder again. "It's okay, I'm fine," I assure him. "Did you get more sleep?"

"Nah, I'm not tired," he says but I can he's not being completely honest because he's doing a good job of not meeting my eyes. He catches the concerned expression on my face and shrugs. "It's nothing, my chest just twinges a bit."

"They haven't given you any more morphine?" I ask anxiously, nearly jumping right up to go find a nurse that instant.

"They've got one of those buttons you push for it but I don't want to do it," Artie says, shifting awkwardly. "It makes my head feel really funny. Besides, it doesn't really hurt that bad."

"Artie, they took a bunch of knives to you, it's gotta hurt a bit," I say reasonably.

Artie looks down and I realise he's glancing down the front of the hospital gown at his chest. Curiosity builds in me (I've never seen what someone looks like after they've been sliced open) but I pull back and resist the urge to follow his eyes. When Artie glances sideways at me he smiles. "It does look kind of creepy," he says and then nods toward it.

As I inch forward, I see him hastily lay one arm across his stomach, pushing the gown flush against his body. It doesn't take me long to figure out why; that whole 'no pants' thing. Trying not to blush, I lean my face in close to Artie's ( _not_ thinking about the feel of his cheek against mine) and peek down at his chest. It's got several stitched gashes across it, all of them very exact and precise. The perfection of it all is almost freakier than the hack-n-slash jobs in horror movies.

"Whoa," I say and pull back, shaking my head. "That's weird."

"Tell me about it," Artie says and laughs, but I notice the way he winces when he does it. When he sees my face he smiles, but out of the corner of my eye I see his left hand moves over a little plastic thing and I can tell he's trying to hide the morphine button from me. It's kind of sad how unsubtle he is about it, but then again Artie's not the best about being subtle. This is the guy who came right out and told me just how, um,  _functional_  he is.

"You really should get some more sleep," I say concernedly.

"I'm fine, Tee," he says with a hint of defensiveness in his voice. And suddenly it all makes sense to me. It's not the fuzziness in his head that's making him refuse the morphine. He doesn't like being vulnerable. He doesn't want to have to use it and not be in control anymore. He won't use it because he's scared. It's not so much that he doesn't want to make the pain go away, it's that he physically  _can't_  make himself push the button and give the control over to the medicine.

"Okay," I say and nod, settling back onto the bed and propping myself up on my elbow to talk to him. Artie looks a little surprised at how quickly I backed off, but he doesn't say anything about it. If I'm going to get him to use the morphine, I've got to be sneakier about it and getting him defensive will not help. "So how was the rest of that movie? It was actually kind of interesting, I wanted to see the end."

"The end was pretty lame," he says and I notice the set of his shoulders ease slightly. It makes me feel just a little guilty that Artie trusts me so easily, since in my head I'm trying to plan ways to trick him into the painkillers. "Typical turn around, it ended up being the brother instead."

"Should have seen that one coming," I say and shake my head.  _C'mon, Tina, think! How can you get him that morphine?_  "So what did you do the whole time I was asleep?"

"Watched more movies," Artie says, gesturing at the TV and I only just realise it's still on, the volume way low. "Found a Hitchcock to watch, and then some reruns of Star Trek. I forgot how funny that show was."

"Which version?" I ask. "The original or the one with the bald guy?"  _You could always just wrestle it away from him; he's weak and injured so you actually have a chance of winning. No, that wouldn't be right…_

Artie laughs. "The original," he says. "I used to watch it all the time with my dad, but I haven't seen it in years."

 _There's got to be something you can do that won't make him mad at you. Maybe there's a way to convince him to do it…_  "I don't think I've ever actually watched it," I admit, glancing up at the TV curiously.

"Really?" Artie asks in surprise. "I thought everyone had seen it at least once. Here." He turns the volume up so that I can actually hear it and we settle back to watch it. I am still thinking wildly of what I can do while I stare vacantly at the screen, Artie giving me a running commentary of who all the characters are as it plays. It's a full half hour later that, as I lean my head into his shoulder in defeat, I finally think of something.  _Oh God I'm gonna hate myself for this._

"Tee, you going back to sleep?" Artie asks gently.

I look up at him and smile. "No, I'm just – I'm really happy you're okay," I say and I don't have to fake the emotion in my voice. Artie blushes and I stretch my neck to push a kiss into his cheek. When I pull back I meet his eyes and see exactly in them what I was hoping for. I only deliberate a second longer before I press another kiss onto his lips this time. Artie tenses slightly but then I feel him relax. I shift myself so I can kiss him better, and for a moment I'm so light-headed with the feelings that I forget what I'm doing.

Artie tries to twist to face me better and then hisses, his hand releasing mine to touch his chest lightly. Instantly I put a hand on his shoulder, pushing him flat against the mattress again. "Don't hurt yourself," I say desperately.

"I'm fine," Artie says and even manages to smile for me. "Just twisted too much, nothing big." He lifts the hand from his chest and tucks a stray hair that escaped my ponytail behind my ear. My eyes instinctively close at the feel of his fingers on the side of my face and I lean into his touch just slightly. I shouldn't want this so badly. This shouldn't be happening in the first place.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly, although I'm apologising for more than just what he thinks I am. "I shouldn't have done that."

"No, it's – it's fine, really," Artie says and he looks embarrassed. Then he sets his jaw and ploughs on, "Look, Tee, things got really weird between us a while back, but I think we both made mistakes and we've both gotten past it."  _Oh no, please, Artie, don't do this, not now._  "I never stopped liking you, Tee, even when I thought I hated you. And the way you've been here for me with this, I just –"  _No, he really is doing this now. I really hate myself._  "Do you think maybe we could try again?"

"Oh Artie," I say and I don't even bother to wipe the tears off my eyes when I lean forward and kiss him again. It's sweet and tender and it almost makes me want to cry more. I feel him trying to prop himself up on his elbows to reach me better and I don't want to risk him twisting his chest again. Very carefully, I slide my right leg the rest of the way across his and try not to think about the fact that I'm straddling his lap. In a skirt. While, under the blanket, he's not wearing pants. If it weren't for the fact that I'm doing it so he doesn't hurt himself, I'd feel like a real skank right now.

I lean over and brace myself with my hands on either side of his head, finding his lips again. I'm losing myself in his kiss again as he starts to deepen it, timidly and almost questioningly, making my heart melt. I have to remind myself what's really going on as he reaches his free hand up to cup my cheek, his fingers sliding up around the back of my neck so lightly it sends chills through my spine.  _C'mon, Artie, please._ Then suddenly his other hand is on my cheek and I sigh against his lips.

A few seconds later I feel him hesitate. When I open my eyes I see his are fluttering and his forehead wrinkles in confusion. He kisses me again but then he pulls back and blinks hard, shaking his head a little.

"I'm sorry, Artie, but I care about you too much to watch you let yourself suffer," I say, trying not to choke up. It takes a second but then his eyes widen in comprehension and he glances down at my hand, clutching the morphine button.

He looks like he's fumbling for words for a minute and then he says, "You suck." But there's not much conviction behind the words and he lets his head sink back into the pillows heavily. "You tricked me," he accuses but his words are already starting to slur.

"I know," I say, not even bothering to deny it. "And I'm really sorry. But I knew you weren't going to do it, even though we both know you need it."

"Were you just acting then?" Artie asks and there's a hint of that familiar hurt in his eyes, but at the same time I can see that he doesn't actually believe it either.

"No," I say with every ounce of conviction I have in my body. "I really do want to try again if you do. I was only planning to kiss you, I hadn't counted on your little speech, but I still meant everything."

"Did it make it harder for you to do?" he asks, fixing his eyes on me curiously.

I blink in confusion, not sure what he means by it, but I don't lie. "Yes, it was like hell."

Artie surveys me for a minute, although judging by the way he squints I'm slipping out of focus. I know one more push of this button and he'll be out in no time. "Good," he says and there's the faintest smile on his face. He's already forgiven me. His eyes are drifting but he pushes them open again to say, "Thanks. For taking care of me, and all."

I smile and reach up to brush his hair off his forehead. "I won't leave you alone here," I promise and Artie nods gratefully.

"Tee, sing it for me?" he asks.

"Sing what?"

"You know," he says and I do know. I depress the morphine button one more time before setting it down. I take off Artie's glasses, setting them on the bedside table again, and then I curl up next to him on the mattress. He has one hand resting lightly on his stomach and I place my hand on top of his, nestling my head onto his shoulder, and then I start to sing quietly.

" _You with the sad eyes, don't be discouraged, oh I realise it's hard to take courage…_ "


	8. Will the Blushing Never End

I watch the Star Trek reruns for the next several hours, still curled up on the bed next to Artie. He was right; this show is pretty funny in a 'so classically cheesy it's awesome' sort of way. I have a hard time following what exactly is going on, because of all the different character lines and the technology stuff I've never heard of, but it's still entertaining. Definitely better than the science textbook in my backpack that I really should be reading.

There's a light tap on the door and when I see who it is I sit bolt upright, blushing. Mr. Abrams smiles from the doorframe. I try not to look too guilty, but I can't help thinking about earlier this morning when I'd sort of pushed myself onto Artie. Would Mr. Abrams consider that me taking advantage of his son? No, it was mutual. And yet I'm still blushing.

"Uh, morning," I say awkwardly.

"Morning," Mr. Abrams replies, coming around to stand at the side of the bed near me so we can talk without waking Artie up. I realise I'm still holding Artie's hand but when I try to slide it out he moans and grips me tighter until I'm forced to admit that I'm not getting my hand back anytime soon. "I brought you some coffee, like I promised," Mr. Abrams says, smiling and holding up a Starbucks cup.

"Thanks," I say and take it gratefully in the hand that Artie isn't squeezing to death. I turn on the bed so I'm hanging my legs over the edge, facing Artie's dad.

"Did he wake up last night?" Mr. Abrams asks, glancing past me to his son.

"Yeah, not long after you went home," I say, neglecting to tell him that Artie was actually awake before. I have a feeling his parents might be upset if they find out he was awake and didn't say anything to them. "I just got him to go back to sleep about," I glance out at the clock, "four hours ago."

"He gave you trouble about it?" Mr. Abrams asks knowingly.

"He was refusing the morphine," I explain. "You know how he is about feeling weak and stuff." Mr. Abrams nods in agreement and I take a glorious swallow of the coffee, feeling it wake me up and warm me (I'm getting a little cold in my skirt, but after Artie's comment about pants I wasn't remotely tempted to get under the blankets even if he wouldn't feel it.)

"Did you get any sleep?" Mr. Abrams asks, looking just below my eyes at what I assume are probably sleep rings.

"Yeah, I slept for a couple hours last night and I've been dozing in and out all morning since he fell asleep," I assure him because he looks genuinely concerned.

"You're better off than me," Mr. Abrams says, shaking his head. "Neither Judy or I could sleep much last night. The house feels haunted without him there. I tried to convince Judy to call in another emergency today so she could stay home and sleep but she went anyway. I can only stay for about another hour and then I need to get to work."

"I'm sorry," I say because it's the only thing I can think of. Mr. Abrams shrugs.

"So I'm assuming you took Judy's words to heart and patched things up a bit last night?" he asks with a sly grin, shooting a glance down at my hand entwined with Artie's.

 _Don't blush, don't blush, don't – damn_. "Yeah sort of," I agree vaguely. I'm most definitely not about to tell Mr. Abrams about our impromptu make-out session this morning. No matter how close a family is, some things are just better left secret.

"That's good to know," Mr. Abrams says and he actually sounds like he means it. We're quiet for a minute and then he says, "Artie's not quite as fragile as we treat him sometimes. He really is a strong boy. But he has a hard time opening up to people and trusting them, not that I blame him. He really trusts you, Tina, and I know you're a good enough person to know what sort of responsibility that is."

"It's not really a responsibility," I say calmly and Mr. Abrams looks up to meet my eyes. "It's called friendship. It's what we do for each other. And friendship like mine and Artie's, that's not something I'd ever take lightly."

"I can see why Artie likes you so much, you two are a lot alike," Mr. Abrams says and I can see approval in his eyes. "You'll take good care of each other."

"Thank you," I say because once again I can't think of anything else to say. I turn my focus to my coffee to distract myself.

"So what are you planning on doing all day today?" Mr. Abrams asks and I relax when I realise he's done talking about the serious stuff. He wasn't as obtrusive or embarrassing as Mrs. Abrams, but somehow what he'd said has me just as rattled.

"Really, just keep him from getting too freaked out," I say. "I know he doesn't like hospitals, so I just want to keep him distracted. Maybe I'll get him to try and tutor me with my science, that'll take so much concentration it should work." Mr. Abrams laughs appreciatively.

"Have any of his other friends tried to get a hold of you?" he asks.

"Yeah, they were calling and texting me all day yesterday trying to find out what'd happened. I called Mercedes back last night, because if I tell her then she's good at spreading the news, and I told her I'd let them know when Artie's somewhere he can have visitors," I explain and Mr. Abrams looks grateful.

"They should be moving him later today," he says and I nod, remembering the doctor saying that. We both go back to our coffees and it gets quiet again, except for the sound of the heart monitor in the background and the hospital beyond the door whirring up into life.

I feel my hand being squeezed and I glance back. Artie's eyes are half-open and he's looking down at our hands curiously, like he's trying to figure out how they got like that. "Hey, you awake?" I ask gently.

Artie looks up at me and flashes a sleepy grin. "I think so," he says. "I'm not sure, someone drugged me." I blush and make sure to look everywhere except at his dad. I had forgotten (purposely) to mention that I had been the one to give him the morphine. Instead I set my coffee on the bedside table and then handed Artie his glasses. Once he has them on he looks over and spots his dad, grinning. "Hey Dad," he says.

"Hey there, Sport," Mr. Abrams says. He stands up and comes over, bending down to kiss Artie on the forehead. Artie glances sideways at me and blushes a little, and I try not to giggle. "How you feeling?"

"Better," Artie says. "Tons better. Where's Mum?"

"She's already at work, but she wanted to let you know she loves you and she'll come over as soon as she gets off work," Mr. Abrams says. He drags a hand through his hair and I notice the shadows under his eyes, but the way he's smiling at Artie makes them almost unnoticeable. "So you're turning Tina into a Trekkie, are you?"

Artie glances up at the TV to see that Star Trek is still playing and smiles at me. "I just introduced her, I didn't expect her to leave it on the channel after I fell asleep," he says innocently. It seems like at this moment he realises we're still holding hands and he lets go quickly, casting a guilty look at his dad. I can imagine he's thinking about the same thing I was.

Mr. Abrams laughs quietly, trying not to let his smile show. "I wasn't going to say anything about it," he says, "but I should warn you that if your mother catches you two holding hands she may spontaneously combust with happiness." Artie and I are both blushing and looking anywhere but at each other.

A nurse appears in the doorway, carrying a tray, and she knocks lightly on the door. "Good morning," she says brightly. "Are you ready for some breakfast, Arthur?"

"Artie," all three of us say instantly.

She looks a little taken aback but she smiles again. "Sorry. Artie," she corrects. She brings over the tray and pulls the bedside table so it's hanging over the bed. When she sets it down Artie and I both look at the sickly looking food, and when I meet his eyes he pulls a disgusted face. I bite down on the inside of my cheek so I don't laugh.

The nurse goes about checking all of the machines around the bed and then the clipboard hanging off the end. "It looks like everything is good," she says and that same smile is still in place. I start to wonder if she's actually happy or if it's just well-practised faking from years of trying to be optimistic in the face of all this sickness and death. Suddenly I'm very sure I'm not going into a medical field. "All of your vitals are still fine. Are you having any trouble breathing?" Artie shakes his head, looking confused. "How's the pain?"

"Fine, the morphine hasn't worn off yet," Artie admits.

"Well when it does you go ahead and just push that little button there," she says and points to the morphine button. I look away, feeling guilty. Artie thanks her and lifts a hand to take the plastic spoon and poke the greyish oatmeal unenthusiastically. "You're lucky to have such a supportive family, I saw your sister in here with you all night."

Artie looks up in confusion and I quickly touch his arm and mouth, "me." He knits his eyebrows but nods to the nurse and smiles. "Yeah, she's great," he agrees. The nurse smiles and leaves, and Artie turns to me. "My sister?"

"Only family is allowed in the ICU," I explain. "Your dad told them I was your adopted sister so I could come in."

Artie glances between us and then laughs. "Wow, I didn't see that one coming," he says. Then he looks up at Mr. Abrams and says, "Thanks, Dad."

"No problem, Sport," he says. Then he glances at his watch and frowns. "Sorry but I've got to go or I'm going to be late. I'll see you later, alright?"

"Bye," Artie says and he lets his dad kiss his forehead again before Mr. Abrams leaves. We're silent for a moment while Artie goes back to poking the food, his nose wrinkled. "I'm afraid of this," he admits and I laugh.

"So am I," I agree. Artie pushes the tray away and looks up at me, and it's a relief to see that familiar spark back in his eyes.

"You know I really hope the doctors weren't watching us all night," he says in a low voice, and he's smirking. "They'll think we're really screwed up and have us both institutionalised."

"Why?" I ask curiously.

Artie laughs, blushing a little. "Tee, this might be small hick-town Ohio, but even here people don't often kiss their sisters."


	9. An Impromptu Party

It's past lunchtime, and Artie and I have finished picking apart the edible parts of his lunch. Now we're listening to my iPod, a headphone a piece, and having a thumb war. Which I'm finding out Artie is really, really good at.

"Hello, Arthur."

"Artie," we both say instinctively before looking over at the door. There's a doctor standing there, carrying a chart in his arm and smiling. Artie pins my thumb beneath his and I look back down at our hands indignantly, trying to get my thumb free while Artie laughs.

"Right, Artie," the doctor says and he walks over to the side of the bed. "And you must be his sister?"

"Tina," I supply with a nod.

"Nice to meet you," he says. "Well Artie, it's been twenty-four hours and your vitals are looking great, even better than expected. So we're going to go ahead and move you to another room out of the ICU."

Artie nods, looking slightly anxious. "Tina'll still be able to come with, won't she?" he asks, and his grip on my hand has gotten just a bit tighter.

The doctor smiles. "Of course," he says. Artie's hand relaxes. "You'll be out in the main part of the hospital, so you'll be able to have non-family visitors too. That way all of your friends can come up and see you."

"Oh," Artie says but for some reason he doesn't sound all that excited about it. I raise an eyebrow at him curiously but he shakes his head ever so slightly and I know he's not going to elaborate. "Alright then."

The doctor gets a couple of nurses and orderlies from the hall as I get off the bed and into Artie's wheelchair. When the doctor comes back he looks at me in surprise. "Are you paraplegic as well?" he asks curiously.

"What? Oh, no," I say quickly, blushing awkwardly. "Sprained ankle." The doctor glances at my bandaged ankle and then nods. I keep out of the way as the people crowd around the bed and get it ready to move.

"We're taking him up to the sixth floor," the doctor explains to me. "Room 32. The elevator will be full with the bed in it, but you can follow us up. If you get lost just ask a nurse for directions."

"Okay, thanks," I say. I look up and see Artie is watching me around the side of a nurse. "I'll meet you upstairs, okay?"

"Sure," Artie says but I can tell he's nervous. He's still staring at me as they start moving the bed out of the room. I make sure everything of Artie's that his parents brought up is gathered and I put it in my lap before following the group out of the door. Ahead of me they are already getting into an elevator and I can tell immediately that there's no room for me. Artie smiles but I can see the fear in his eyes, so I wave and smile as brightly as I can manage until the doors close.

While I wait for the next elevator to show up, I pull out my phone and send a quick text. I am fidgeting anxiously when the elevator doors finally open, and just as I'm rolling myself in I get a reply. One glance at it makes my heart leap and I tuck my phone back into my bag with a broad grin on my face.

There are a couple other people in the elevator and they give me sort of weird looks as I manoeuvre the chair in. I can imagine why; I'm a scrawny little Asian girl in a wheelchair with lighted wheels, dressed in a studded jacket, black skirt, and one knee-high striped sock and trainer while the other foot is wrapped up in an ACE bandage, so my neon green toenail polish is visible. Add to that the fact that I've got my highlighted hair swept back into a messy ponytail and no make-up on so the last twenty-four hours are probably showing bad on my face, I'm sure I don't exactly look like perfection.

Ignoring the looks, I reach forward and push the '6' button. It's slow moving up, since we wind up stopping at every floor, but finally I get to leave. Following the signs, I manage to find Artie's room just as the last orderly is walking out.

"Long time no see," I say as I roll in and Artie looks relieved to see me. "You didn't think I was going to ditch, did you?"

"No, why would I?" Artie asks but he's trying just a little too hard to sound innocent. I park the chair beside the bed, move all of his things to the bedside table, and then climb up to sit on the bed with him again.

"Okay well I want to actually beat you at this thumb war thing once," I say and hold out my hand. Artie smiles gratefully and slips his hand into mine, and we pass another good hour where I fail miserably at winning.

"You're really bad at this game," Artie says, easily trapping my thumb again.

"No, you're just really good," I argue. "You have like – thumbs of steel."

Artie snorts. "Thumbs of steel?"

"Whatever," is my witty comeback, making Artie laugh harder. I manage to fight my thumb out from under his, but I think he might have eased up on me. "So why were you so glum earlier? I thought you'd have been excited that our friends can come up now."

Artie shrugs but he's not meeting my gaze. "Doesn't really matter to me, you're the only friend I need," he says. It breaks my heart when I realise what he's really thinking. _You're the only friend I have._  Why can't Artie realise how many people there are that actually care about him? I really need to keep his mood up, so I fish around hastily for something to make him feel better.

"Hey, good news, I don't have to pretend to be your sister anymore," I point out and then lean forward to kiss him. Artie blushes and smiles.

"That is pretty nice," he agrees and his mood shifts almost instantly. "I'm not fond of incest, even if it is adopted incest." I laugh and shake my head at him. "So Tee, does this mean we're like – a couple?"

I flush with pleasure at the thought of it. "Yeah, I think so," I say, looking up at him to see he looks just as flustered and happy as me. "Is that what you want?"

"Yeah," Artie says, almost a little too fast. I am pretty sure I will never get tired of seeing that shy smile and blush. "This is kinda weird, I've never had a girlfriend before."

"Me neither," I say and Artie laughs before I realise what's wrong in what I said. "Except I mean boyfriend," I correct quickly. "Although I've never had a girlfriend either."

"I knew what you meant," Artie says. "It just sounded funny."

As I'm laughing I glance past Artie to the room's window and I smile. "Hey Artie, you've got company," I say and point just as a figure appears in the doorway.

"Hey Wheels," Mercedes says, coming into the room.

Kurt is only two seconds behind her. "How are you feeling?" he asks.

"Hey guys," Artie says and his surprise is clear on his face. "What are you doing here?"

"We couldn't conduct a productive rehearsal in our current state of mind," Rachel announces, coming in behind Kurt. Okay, now I'm surprised too. "Our morale was horribly low without your presence and it was reflecting poorly on our performance abilities."

"So we brought rehearsal to you," Finn says, following Rachel into the room.

"Hope you don't mind," Mr. Schuester says when he walks in, and Ms. Pillsbury, an almost permanent fixture at his side lately, is a half-step behind. "Everyone wanted to see you and make sure you were okay."

Puck and Quinn come in next, and I notice that Finn moves farther away from where they are standing, putting Rachel and Mr. Schue between them. Apparently that drama hasn't fixed itself while we've been gone. Then come Brittany and Matt and Mike and even Santana.

"Hopefully you aren't claustrophobic," Finn says with a laugh, since the room is starting to feel pretty full with all fourteen of us in here.

"Is that afraid of closets?" Brittany asks Santana curiously, making everyone 've created a bit of a half-circle around the bed, Quinn taking one of the empty visitor chairs with a hand on her belly and Rachel perching daintily on the other, while everyone else leans against the walls.

"I can't believe you guys are here," Artie says in awe. He pulls himself up a little on the bed so he's sitting straighter and then his hand finds its way back into mine again.

"We were worried about you," Quinn says.

"We would have been up here yesterday but Tina told us you couldn't have visitors yet," Kurt says.

"And once we were informed that you are now allowed to have company, it was an indisputably unanimous decision that practice should be cancelled for the day so that we could all come up to see you together," Rachel says. She smiles fondly around the room and adds, "As a team."

Artie looks like he's still in shock and I squeeze his hand comfortingly. His gaze flicks across every smiling face (yeah, even Santana and Puck are smiling) and then I see that his eyes are looking just a little watery. He lifts a hand and quickly brushes at them, and then smiles at them. "Thanks, guys," he says.

"How you hanging in there?" Finn asks.

"Right now? I'm fantastic," Artie says and I can tell he means it. It seems like this breaks any tension there was in the air, and everyone relaxes into talking and laughing. The hospital room instantly feels just like those fifteen minutes we have to hang before Glee practice, with everyone milling around from conversation to conversation, although everyone is paying extra attention to Artie. He never stops smiling.

After about an hour, the club starts filtering out in little groups. Santana leaves first, because she has a family thing to go to, and Brittany goes with her because she's her ride home. Matt leaves next to go pick his sister up from daycare, and not long afterwards Puck goes, saying he has to get home before his sister gets home from school. Quinn goes with him, since she's now staying with him. Mike has to get to his part-time job and goes about ten minutes later.

The rest of them stick around a lot longer. Rachel is actually doing a good job of not talking a mile a minute, and Finn is able to get the occasional edgewise word in. Mercedes and Kurt keep exchanging those telepathic looks and more than once I see them shoot questioning glances at mine and Artie's entwined hands. Artie and I both blush when we notice, but decide not to comment.

When Mrs. Abrams shows up she looks a little stunned by the group of people in the room; Artie and I still on the bed, with Mercedes and Kurt sitting on the other end, Finn and Rachel filling the visitor chairs, and Mr. Schue and Ms. Pillsbury standing around on the opposite side of the bed. Artie is beaming as he introduces all of them to her, and I watch as a proud smile breaks out on her face. As Artie goes back to his conversation with the other glee kids, I distinctly hear Mrs. Abrams give Mr. Schue a very emotional thank you.

Mr. Schue leaves a half hour after that to get to his janitor job, and it's no shock that Ms. Pillsbury goes with him. "Get better, Artie, we're hoping to have you back in rehearsals soon," he says on his way out. Then with a promise to come visit again, he disappears.

"I should probably be going as well," Rachel says twenty minutes later. "My fathers will worry if I'm not home in time for dinner."

"Since I'm your ride, I guess that's my cue," Finn says and stands up as well. Rachel hugs Artie and Finn claps him on the shoulder, they both say they'll be back tomorrow, and then they're gone. Mercedes and Kurt stay for two more hours and it's not until Artie starts yawning that they finally decide to head home.

"Get better, Artie, it is rather lonely being the only non-jock guy in rehearsals," Kurt says. I decide not to point out that for a while Kurt had been a jock, and a glance at Artie says he's thinking the same thing.

"Oh and if you go and freak us out like this again, Wheels, I'm gonna have to give you a serious beat down," Mercedes threatens. Mrs. Abrams looks a little alarmed but Artie just laughs and hugs the black girl.

Mercedes also gives me a hug before leaving, and she whispers into my ear, "You so better spill about what's up with you and Artie boy the next time I talk to you."

"Later, guys," Artie says, waving as they leave, and then he slumps back into the pillows, still grinning. "Thanks," he says, nudging me with his elbow.

"What for?"

Artie laughs. "I know you arranged all this," he says.

"I didn't," I answer honestly. "I just told Mercedes to let everyone know you could have visitors, I didn't tell them to come. They did that all on their own." I reach over to squeeze his forearm. "They all really care about you, Artie."

"You really didn't?" he asks and I shake my head. "Wow."

"Yeah," I agree. I have to admit I was pretty surprised to see them all too. I had counted on Mercedes and Kurt, and I had thought maybe about Rachel and Mr. Schuester, but everyone else showing up too had been a real shocker for me. I knew they all liked Artie, but it was still kind of amazing to see the way they'd all come together for him.

I glance over and see that Artie's yawning again. "Hmm, but it looks like someone needs to get some sleep," I say.

"Maybe," Artie says vaguely. He strikes up a conversation with his mum, asking how work was, but it doesn't take all that long before he's out cold, smiling in his sleep.


	10. Moonlit Confessions

I decide to spend another night in the hospital, after arguing with the Abrams about it again. They only back off when I promise that I'll go home in the morning for a while, which I really need to do anyway. I've been wearing these clothes for two days now and I could definitely use a shower. Not to mention a meal that didn't come from a vending machine or the hospital cafeteria.

Artie's still fast asleep when his parents leave for the night, so I promise them I'll let him know they said goodnight and that they'll be back tomorrow too. Apparently having company wiped him out. I sit off to the side for a while, grudgingly reading my science book by the bedside lamp, but before I can even finish the chapter I'm practically falling asleep. Of course I have also been awake since three this morning.

Peeling off my jacket, since it's studded and really uncomfortable to sleep in, I climb up onto the bed with Artie. Once I've got the bed reclined almost flat, I curl up next to him like I've spent most of the last forty-eight hours. As I stare at his profile in the light from the hallway, it's kind of hard to believe everything that's happened. Artie was hospitalised, I thought I'd never see him again, and now we're sleeping together in a hospital bed, a couple. I can't stop myself from smiling at that last part.

If you had asked me at the start of the week if I thought Artie and I would be getting together anytime soon, I'd have told you a very confident no. I wanted to, of course, but I didn't want to risk hurting Artie again. That betrayed look on his face when I told him I'd been lying to him for years, that face still haunts my nightmares. I figured it would take us a long time, months and months maybe, for us to build back up to that trust and connection we'd had.

I guess this is one of those situations where you really don't realise what it is you really want until you think it's gone completely.

Resting one hand on Artie's torso, just below the stitches, I can faintly feel his heartbeat against my fingers. I nuzzle my face into his upper arm, smiling. I hear him hum contentedly before I fall asleep.

My dreams are weird and don't make much sense. I can't really follow them, since they seem to be flitting from one thing to another. One minute it's something to do with an airport, and the next I'm alone in the dark, and then suddenly I'm in an empty choir room at McKinley, and then there's a pair of strong arms around me, making me feel warm and safe, and then I'm in the middle of a field with a lightning storm splitting the air around me. My brain can't seem to settle on one scene for long, so I'm going through this emotional whirlwind of confusion, happiness, and panic. Suddenly the whole world pitches to the side like a boat on a wave, and I wake up with a groan.

Except it wasn't me groaning.

Still trying to get my brain caught up after the randomness of my dreams, I blink a few times in the dark. I feel that same pitching feeling and I realise it's because what I've got my head resting on just twitched violently. There's another low moan and I finally figure out where it's coming from.

"Artie?" I ask sleepily. He's frowning and he moans again, but his eyes are still closed so I know he's asleep. His upper body twitches like he'd been poked with a cattle prod. Distantly I notice that the heart monitor over the bed is going faster than normal. "Artie, wake up," I say gently, touching his cheek . He flinches away from my hand with a strangled noise. Under his lids, I can see his eyes moving fast and frantically.

I watch in horrified fascination for a second, trying to figure out what to do. I've never actually seen someone having a nightmare before, since I'm pretty sure that's what's going on, and I don't know how you're supposed to handle the situation.

Carefully, I reach for his hand. When my fingers brush against his palm, his hand closes instantly around mine and I wince at the grip (Artie has  _really_  strong hands, and a death grip from him is pretty intense.) I begin rubbing my thumb over the back of his hand in small, slow circles. "It's okay, Artie," I say quietly, moving a little closer so I can whisper to him.

He makes a really sharp, abrupt moan and a second later I realise it's actually a sob. A tear escapes from beneath his lashes and rolls over his cheek. "Hey, Artie, listen to me," I say in as soothing a voice as I can manage in my nerves. "Artie, you're okay. It's just a dream." Artie just winces in his sleep and as his lips part he moans louder.

I tentatively move my other hand up and cup his cheek in my palm. In an instant, his eyes fly open and his other hand jumps up to latch onto my forearm, almost crushing it in his grip. I want to look away but I'm fixed in his stare, which is wide-eyed and panicked, and his breathing is coming out in fast, staccato bursts.

"It's okay, Artie, it's just me," I say, trying to keep my fear out of my voice. The terrified way he's looking at me is honestly one of the scariest things I've ever seen. He doesn't blink, just stares at me, and I vaguely wonder if it's because he can't see me clearly with his glasses, even though I'm only a half-foot from his face. And finally, after what feels like an hour, I see recognition light in his gaze.

"Tee?" he asks breathlessly.

"Yeah, Artie, it's me," I say in relief. His grip loosens slightly and my fingers start tingling as the blood flows back into them. "Are you okay?"

I can actually see the walls go up behind Artie's eyes and he completely releases me, rolling onto his side facing away from me as best as he can. "Yeah, I'm fine," he says blankly, closing his eyes and burying his face in the curves of his arms.

The dismissal has me more than a little surprised and for a moment all I can do is stare at his back. The soft light coming in from the hall reveals that with the open hospital gown, the skin of his back is actually showing above the blanket at his waist, and in horror I see something I had never expected before; white scars tracing across most of his lower back. The sight of them makes my stomach churn uncomfortably.

Shaking my head, I come back to reality and I place a hand on Artie's arm. He flinches like I'd hit him. "Artie, what's the matter?" I ask quietly.

"Nothing," he says in that same emotionless tone. "It was just a bad dream. It's nothing."

I grunt in frustration, and pull my hand away to cross my arms over my chest. For a moment Artie's body tilts like he's going to follow my hand, but then he stiffens and stays on his side. "Why are you pushing me away?" I ask, working really hard to keep the hurt out of my voice.

Artie tenses again and the shudder that rolls up his back is actually visible. I wonder for a moment if he's cold, but then I hear his shaky breathing and my heart drops into my stomach. "Artie," I say softly and I reach out for his arm again. A second later his hand slips up over mine.

"The accident," he says so quietly I almost miss it. It takes a moment before it clicks. "It was the accident – the one that…" He trails off but I know what he was going to say; the one that paralysed him. "I'm okay, it just – hurts to remember."

I lay down behind him, slipping my arm down around his chest and tucking my chin into the hollow where his neck meets his shoulders. It surprises me a little when Artie relaxes back against me and pulls my arm more securely around him, since I had expected him to try and pull away from me again, but I suppose that maybe he's realised he needs the comfort more than he cares about his pride right now.

"It hurt," he says in a low voice. "A lot." I want to look up at his face but I don't dare move in case it breaks what's happening. Knowing Artie, I have a feeling this is something he's never actually talked about before. "I don't really remember a lot of it. One minute everything was normal, I was turned to talk to my mum, and then she screamed. After that it was just a lot of pain. I felt my back getting cut up and then I couldn't feel anything except the cuts on my arms and face."

He takes a slow breath and tightens his grip on my hand. "In my dreams, everything is slow motion," he whispers. "It takes a lot longer for the pain to start going away. And I can feel the break, even though I'm pretty sure I didn't really feel it when it happened."

"The scars on your back?" I ask quietly and I feel Artie tense again. "That's where they're from?"

Artie nods. "The accident, and the surgeries." He is running his index finger over my hand, tracing all the lines of it like it's the most interesting thing in the world. "I'm okay," he says suddenly and this time I can't help but glance up at his profile curiously. I see the corner of his mouth curl. "Really, I am. The dreams, they just don't come back much anymore and when they do it feels like they sneak up when I'm not expecting it. But I am okay."

"You sure?" I ask cautiously.

I can see Artie smile. "Yeah," he says and squeezes my hand reassuringly. "It's just being in this place again." I feel my heart seize a little; it hadn't even occurred to me that this must be the very same hospital he was brought to after the accident. "But I'm okay now."

"Okay," I say, recognising the tone of his voice to say he's done talking about it.

Artie turns his head back to look at me and I can see that soft smile is back again. "Thanks for listening," he says.

"No problem."

I watch Artie toying with something in his other hand for a minute, although I can't actually make out what it is in the dark. I want to ask, but the silence between us is so comfortable I don't want to break it. Finally he presses the thing into my palm and I suddenly recognise what it is, because I've held it before.

"Tee, can you do it? I can't," he says and I nod, pressing down on the morphine button. Artie watches my hand like he's transfixed, and after a minute I feel his body starting to relax. I move back so he can roll onto his back again, because I know that's more comfortable for him, and when he holds out the arm closest to me I take it as an invitation and slip into his embrace. He wraps his arm around my back and I lay my head on his chest, checking for stitches before putting my head down.

"G'night, Tee," he mumbles quietly. I think he's actually asleep before I get my response out.

"Night, Artie."


	11. Homecoming

"Tina?" I groan sleepily as someone tries to nudge me awake and bury my face deeper into the pillow. "Tina, wake up." I make a louder noise of annoyance. I hear someone's throat clearing awkwardly. "C'mon Tee, your mom's here," he says in a quieter voice.

"Mum?" I ask blearily. Leaning my head back out of the pillow, which I distantly realise isn't actually a pillow, I blink a few times in the light and then my mom's face comes into focus. She's got a half-smile on her face and when she sees me looking she raises an eyebrow.

"Good morning, Tina," she says. And all of a sudden the reality crashes down over me. My mum is standing here, seeing me sleeping curled up in bed with Artie.  _Oh God._ I sit up quickly and cast a sideways glance at Artie, whose blush is so bad it's spread into his ears and down his neck. I'm pretty sure if it weren't for the fact that my own face is burning, I'd be able to feel the heat coming off him.

"Hi, Mum," I say and my voice cracks. "What are you doing here?"

"Besides walking in on something I really didn't expect," my mum says, making my face redden even more, "I was coming to pick you up. Ben called me last night and said you would need a ride home this morning."

"Ben?" I ask in confusion.

"Uh, that's my dad's name, Tee," Artie supplies in an undertone.

"Oh," is the only answer I can manage. I suddenly feel even more embarrassed that I've been best friends with Artie for like four years and don't even know his dad's name. Somewhere in the back of my head I remember Artie telling me his middle name, Benjamin, was his dad's name, but for some reason I never put two and two together.

"You ready to go?" my mum asks, her eyebrow still cocked at that unnatural angle. She has extremely expressive eyebrows.

"Yeah, just a second," I say, going to climb off the bed. I grit my teeth when my feet hit the ground and I feel Artie's hand grab my arm instantly. "I'm okay," I tell him but he doesn't let go.

"Chair," he says firmly, pointing at it.

"What'd you do?" my mum asks and I can hear the worry in her voice as she walks around the bed to me.

"I'm fine," I say brushing away her hand. "It's just a twist." I try to brush away Artie's hand too but he won't let go and when I look back he's fixing me with a very serious expression.

"Tina, chair," he says again.

"I'm fine, I'm not going to take your chair," I say.

To my surprise Artie laughs. "Seriously, Tee, I'm not worried about you hawking it on eBay or anything," he says. "It's not like I'm gonna be using it for the next little while, I'm on strict bed-rest orders. Besides, you won't be gone long, will you?"

I'm surprised by the intensity of the question in his eyes, although I can imagine where it's coming from. He opened himself up last night, and I know that's hard for him to do. Now that he's made himself vulnerable he's afraid I'm going to turn away.

"Not long at all," I assure him and he smiles.

"Then I don't see the problem," he says. He watches me insistently until I finally nod and sit down in his wheelchair. "I'll see you later, 'k?"

"Later," I agree. "Try to get some more sleep while I'm gone, okay?"

"Yeah," he says and laughs. I roll the chair to the door, my mum following just behind me. "Hey Tee?" he says suddenly and I stop in the doorframe, looking back at him over my shoulder. "Bring me something good from the outside, would you?"

I laugh and nod. "You got it."

"What was that about?" my mum asks when we're out in the hallway.

"He wants food," I explain, still laughing.

"Not what I meant," Mum says and when the implications sink in I feel my face colouring again.

"Oh, that," I say. "It – it's nothing, really. It was just easier than sleeping in a chair." My mum raises an eyebrow again. "Mum, there's nothing like that going on," I promise. "Artie's too good a guy for that sort of stuff, and you know I wouldn't do anything like that."

Mum is still surveying me thoughtfully. It's sort of weird, how little I look like her. She's white, with brown hair and green eyes. All of her American DNA sort of got washed out by my dad's Korean, so the only way I look like her is in the shape of my face. Oh, and our ears are the same.

"I know that, honey," my mum says finally. "I was just making sure." I almost sigh in relief, and we get into the elevator. "So I take it you two are back together?"

I am still blushing crimson, but I nod. I can still remember the way she'd sat up with me all night when I'd come home from that first date crying. She had been a little annoyed to find out my stutter was fake too, but she still held me and let me cry and in the end it really did make me feel better. Like I said, my parents aren't bad parents when they're home. When I look up at her now, she's got a subtle smile on her. "That's good," she says and even though it sounds businesslike and diplomatic, I know it's her away of giving me approval.

We don't talk much the rest of the way out of the hospital and into her SUV. When I hobble into the passenger seat, Mum folds the wheelchair up into the backseat, and then we drive home. Mum goes to get the wheelchair out of the car but I shake my head.

"It's okay, I can get around the house without it," I say. "It'll be more of a bother than a help. Trust me, I've tried." Mum laughs and I know she's remembering the day I brought home one of the Glee wheelchairs and just wound up getting stuck in every doorway in the house before giving up.

Mum offers me her arm and I hold onto it as I limp into the house, but I'm pleased to find out my ankle doesn't hurt nearly as bad as it did two days ago. Once I'm inside, Mum heads for the kitchen with a promise of, "I'll make some lunch," while I go into my bedroom, grab a fresh pair of clothes, and lock myself in my bathroom. Turning on the shower, I unwrap my ankle, undress from my wrinkled clothes, and then step into the water.

I can't help the contended sigh that escapes me when the warm water hits me. Wow, I really did need this shower. Because my ankle is so sore, I sit down on the bottom of the shower and for several minutes I just let the water roll over me. The heat relaxes the tensed muscles in my back and shoulders, and it feels so good I'm tempted to go to sleep.

Shaking myself out of it, I grab my shampoo and wash my hair. It makes me feel really gross when I feel how greasy my hair's gotten in the last two days, so just for safety's sake I wash it twice.

It's nearly an hour later when I finally turn off the water and get out, drying myself off and getting dressed. When I look at myself in the mirror I have to admit I look a lot better. The last grey streaks from the make-up have been washed away, and my hair is sleek and shiny again.

When I step out of the bathroom, I catch the smell of food from the kitchen and my stomach grumbles loudly. I limp quickly to the kitchen just as Mum is dishing up bowls of Asian stir fry. She might be American, but somehow my mum makes killer Asian food.

While we eat I fill my mum in on everything I hadn't gotten to explain over the phone about Artie's plumerary thing (I can't remember what it's called but thankfully Mum knows what I mean.) When she asks about me and Artie getting back together, I'm a little vaguer with the details. I'm not planning on telling her he asked me out when I practically jumped him as a distraction so I could drug him. She might take it the wrong way. In fact I'm not sure there's a way to say it that _doesn't_  sound bad.

Before we get ready to go back, I wander into the pantry and tuck some snack food into my schoolbag. When we get to the hospital she helps me back into Artie's wheelchair, but then she puts a hand on my arm to stop me before I can roll off.

"Be good, Tina," she says. "I know you really like this boy, but don't do anything you'll regret, okay?"

"Mum, even if we were going to be doing regrettable things, this is a hospital," I point out. She gives me a serious look and I back off. "Okay, yeah, I know. If it makes you feel any better, he's paralysed, I'm not even sure he can do regrettable things."

"Tina," my mum says in exasperation, rolling her eyes.

"Okay, okay," I say, putting my hands up in surrender. "Alright, seriously, don't worry, Mum. We'll behave."

"And it's not just that I want you to be careful about," Mum goes on. "I remember the way you were the last time you two fought. Try not to let your heart get too far ahead of your brain this time, alright?"

I look up at my mum, kind of regarding her in a new light. It's not often she pulls those real 'mum' moments on me, since she's pretty much in business-folk mode twenty-four/seven, but every time she does it reminds me why I love her so much.

"Okay, Mum," I say. "Don't worry, we messed this up once already, neither of us is ready to do it again. We don't keep secrets from each other anymore." I think of last night, when Artie told me about the accident, which I still think is something he's never told anyone before. Which only makes me feel that much better about him telling me. "But thanks Mum, for caring."

Mum smiles and I realise that maybe that's another thing we have in common. She bends over and gives me a big hug, which I return enthusiastically, and she kisses my cheek before pulling back. "Always," she says. "Okay, you better enjoy this weekend because come Monday you are going back to school, no arguments."

"Alright," I agree reluctantly. I really don't want to go back to school without Artie, but I have already missed three days now and I figure I can't get away with a whole lot more.

"I'll come back in the morning to get you," Mum says and I look up at her in surprise. Despite everything, she's still willing to let me stay overnight. She laughs at my expression. "Well we can't leave that poor boy alone in the hospital all night, not if they scare him."

"Thanks," I say for what I've realised is like the hundredth time in this conversation.

"Alright, bye honey," Mum says. "Love you."

"Love you too," I chime back, and I give her one last hug before I roll back up to the hospital. My mum isn't around to be a mum much, but when she is, she's the coolest.


	12. Study Session: Failure

When I roll back into the hospital room, Artie is asleep with another old black-and-white movie playing on the television. Smiling, I slip the remote control out of his hand and turn off the TV. He makes a little noise in his sleep but doesn't wake up. I settle myself beside the bed, propping my ankle up on one of the visitor chairs since it's starting to pound from being walked on.

I get into my schoolbag and pull out my science book and iPod, turning the music on to hopefully keep me from falling asleep reading. I really do need to get this reading done if I'm going to get caught back up in class, since I've missed half of the week now. Of course that knowledge doesn't mean I understand what I'm reading any more than I usually do.

Two more days. I have two more days after today to spend with Artie here and then I have to go back to school and leave him alone for eight hours out of the day. That thought doesn't make me feel very good. I think about how Artie will feel, being trapped in this place he's scared of, by himself. Refusing to go back to school suddenly seems very tempting, even if I know I couldn't actually get away with it. Not even Artie would let me.

I look up from my science book to glance over my shoulder at him. He looks so much more relaxed now than he has the last couple times he's been asleep. I wonder vaguely if that has something to do with talking to me last night, but I honestly couldn't say. Maybe I just think he looks more relaxed now that I am. You know, like a brain trick or something. At least his hand isn't clenching on the blankets like usual.

Sighing heavily, I force my attention back onto my science book. Stupid science. It's not like I'm ever going to use this in the real world. Do I really care about the little technical pieces inside of plants that turn sunshine into energy? I huff in annoyance, but turn the page and keep reading about all the chloro- meso- things that I'm never going to remember for the test.

An hour later, I'm still turning the pages so violently I'm nearly tearing them, taking out my frustration at the mubmo-jumbo my teacher's trying to stuff into my brain on the book. I'm about to give up and slam the book shut when I hear a quiet laugh from behind me. I look back and Artie's watching me with a smile.

"Science?" he asks curiously and laughs when I nod. "C'mere, lemme see if I can make it make sense to you," he offers, patting the spot on the bed beside him.

"How long have you been awake?" I ask as I grab my bag and climb up to sit facing him.

"Only a few minutes," he says. "But it's kind of funny watching you glare daggers at inanimate objects." He takes the book from me and his eyes scan the page. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see comprehension in his face, because if he understands it that means he'll be able to make me understand it.

"Oh, and I brought you something," I say, digging into my bag as Artie looks up in interest. I can honestly say I've never seen anyone so excited about Oreos, but Artie's face breaks out into an enormous grin.

"You are my saviour," he says, opening the package on his lap and taking one. Meanwhile I am practically rolling around laughing at the expression on his face when he puts the first Oreo in his mouth. "Oh c'mon, Tee, gimme a break," he says, pushing me lightly. "I've been eating hospital food for two days."

"So have I," I point out. "But you don't see me having a total food-gasm over a cookie."

Artie's face blushes bright red and he throws an Oreo at me. "I did not," he says embarrassedly. We bicker back and forth about it for a while, and it feels great because it feels like normal. I have to admit I was a little worried things would get awkward between us now that we're a couple, but it feels just like it's always been and that's the greatest possible thing.

"Fine, see if I help you with your science," Artie says, crossing his arms over his chest. He's trying to look serious but the corners of his lips are twitching.

"Oh, no fair, please," I say. "I don't understand a word of this and Mom's making me go back to school Monday, and you know because I've been gone Mr. Spencer's gonna pick on me for everything."

Artie rolls his eyes, put he picks the book back up and gestures for me to come over next to him so we can read it together. "So you're going back Monday?" he asks in a forced light-hearted voice as I settle down at his side and he spreads the book across our laps.

"Not willingly," I say. "But then you know me, if it weren't for Glee I would probably stop going to school all together."

"That's true," Artie concedes and I'm relieved to see he's still smiling. "Wish I could go back, I'm going to be bored out of my mind here."

"When are they letting you out?" I ask.

Artie shrugs. "Not sure yet," he says. "The doctor was in here earlier while you were gone and said so long as things stay going well, I could be home sometime next week, but my parents won't let me go back to school until I'm completely healed. You know, so I don't split a stitch getting taped to the flagpole or anything."

I just stare at him in awe for a moment. "How do you take things like that so cool?" I ask, unable to stop myself.

"I don't know," Artie says, like he's only just realising it himself. "It used to bother me when I was younger, like right after the accident, but I guess I've just gotten used to it. Besides, if you let them see it bothers you then they just do it more."

"And if you don't then they just come up with something worse," I point out.

"Well, yeah, there's that," Artie agrees. "I mean, yeah, it sucks when they tape my wheels together, or lock me up in the porti-potties behind the bleachers. But stressing about it isn't going to make it any better, and it isn't going to make them stop either, so there's really no point in wasting my time."

I can't seem to wrap my mind around this idea, no matter how much sense it makes. All I can think about is how humiliating it feels every time I'm doused in slushie or tossed in a dumpster. "You are so cool," I say.

Artie blushes but there's a pleased little smirk on his face. "Flattering the tutor doesn't mean this stuff's going to be any easier," he says, pointing at the textbook. I sigh and he starts re-explaining everything that Mr. Spencer's been talking about for the last two weeks. For some reason, the way Artie explains it actually makes some sense in my head, unlike Mr. Spencer. Or maybe that's just because when Artie's talking I actually pay attention. I'm not sure which.

"I'm bringing all of my homework to you until you come back," I declare when we've made it halfway through the chapter and I'm still not confused yet. "I actually understand what's going on when you say it." I pause for a second as an idea comes to me. "That's what I can do, I'll bring you your homework and we can study together. That way you don't fall behind while you're gone."

"You'd do that?" Artie asks and then laughs. "What am I saying; I'm talking to the girl who spent the last two days living in a hospital just to keep me company. Stupid question." He puts his hand on my knee and squeezes it lightly. "Thanks, Tee, I appreciate it. All of it."

"Hey, that's what I'm for," I say, nudging him with my shoulder. Artie smiles and then surprises me by leaning over and kissing me. It suddenly occurs to me that this is the first time he's been the one to instigate the kiss, and that sends a beautiful fluttery feeling through my chest. It's sort of like, by doing it, he's finally giving me that sign that this relationship is what he really wants and not something I've pushed him into. There aren't really words for what that does to my chest.

When we pull apart, more slowly this time than usual, Artie gives me a curious look and says, "You smell like jasmine." He says it like it's the most interesting thing in the world and I have to smile at the innocent curiosity on his face.

"My shampoo," I explain. "Why, does it bother you?"

"No, not at all," he says. "I just never noticed before." Coming from anyone else, his amazement at this revelation might seem weird, but I can understand it because Artie notices  _everything_. "So, should we finish this chapter?"

I sigh dramatically. "If we must," I say with a pretend pout. Artie just laughs.

"Yes, we must," he says and then launches back into the chapter. I try my hardest to follow along, but it's a little bit more difficult now than before, because now I keep thinking about his kiss. Of course even with that I still get way more of it than I do in class. Every time Artie notices my attention is slipping he bumps my shoulder until I come back to reality, but I notice that every time he has to do it he smiles.

Ten minutes later, Artie rolls his eyes and closes the book. "Okay, clearly this is as far as your brain's gonna go today," he says, laughing and tossing the book onto the foot of the bed. "Although I am impressed, I think that's the longest you've been able to sit still and study."

"What about that time we were studying for that English test?" I put in. "That was like three hours."

"It took three hours because you kept getting distracted and going off on other things every ten minutes," Artie points out, trying not to laugh.

"Okay, I'll give you that one," I admit grudgingly. "But there was that time we were up half the night for that history test, and it wasn't my fault that took so long."

"That doesn't count, you're good at history," Artie says, not even bothering to hold back the laughing this time. "You were tutoring me on that one, that's different."

"You always have to be right, don't you?" I ask, rolling my eyes.

"Yeah, I generally am," he agrees and bites into an Oreo with a silly grin. I take one too and I can feel him watching me curiously as I pry the two cookies apart, lick the middle, and stick it back together before biting it. "Why do you do that?"

I look at the remaining half of Oreo in my hand and shrug. "I don't know, it's just what I've always done," I say. "My grandpa taught me that when I was like two, and I've done it ever since."

"Weird," Artie says and I lightly kick his leg before realising that was about the most pointless thing I've ever done. Artie snorts and laughs so hard he starts choking, and no matter how much I try to glare in annoyance at him, the sight of him looking so happy makes it really, really impossible to not laugh too. "Nice one," he comments between laughs once they've calmed enough for him to form understandable words.

"Shut up," I say, putting the other half of my Oreo into my mouth before my response can get any less clever.

"Okay, I'm sorry," he says, although the effect is sort of ruined by the fact that he's still laughing. On the inside I'm just feeling thankful that the blatant reminder of his paralysis didn't kill his good mood, because I feel so bad when I do things that put him in that mindset. "That might have been a really stupid move," I shove him in mock indignation, "but I will give you smartness credits for the fact that you made the awesome choice of bringing in Oreos, which just happen to be – "

" – your favourite cookie," I finish for him and he looks surprised. "Yeah, I know."

"How?" Artie asks curiously.

"Whenever we go to McDonalds for ice cream, you get the Oreo one," I say. "And you almost always have a package of Oreos on your desk." I can tell that Artie's impressed that I know that, and I just shrug and grin. "What? I notice things. When people don't include you much, you learn everything just by watching. My bes–  _boyfriend_  taught me that." I blushed a little at changing words midway.

"That's gonna take some getting used to, isn't it?" Artie asks with a laugh. "I won't be offended if you slip up, if you promise not to get offended if I do."

"There's nothing to be offended about," I say. "Just because you're my boyfriend now doesn't mean you can't still be my best friend."

"I like that," Artie says and then offers his hand. "Deal?"

I take his hand. "Deal." And then, just because I can, I seal it with a kiss too.


	13. Whenever You Say it Can't Get Any Worse...

Over the weekend Artie and I settle into a sort of routine. In the morning my mum picks me up so I can go home to shower and change clothes and charge the batteries in my iPod since Artie and I run them down pretty fast with how much we have it playing. When I get back, Artie and I study until we get bored, which is always pretty fast. After that we fall back into our typical casual conversations and games. His parents bring in dinner and we all eat it together, no matter how much the nurses frown at us. And then at night Artie and I find a movie to fall asleep too.

The Glee kids keep their promises and come to visit again. Mercedes and Kurt are here the moment Glee lets out on Friday, and they assure us that although they have shopping plans for Saturday, they will most definitely come back Sunday. Rachel and Finn come by on Saturday morning, both of them sneaking in Ziploc bags of 'get well' cookies from home underneath their jackets. Quinn shows up alone Saturday afternoon, looking nervous at first, but once she and Artie start talking about memories from elementary school (I'm pretty surprised to find out that they used to be really good friends when they were young) she relaxes and ends up staying for several hours.

Brittany even shows up on Saturday evening, escorted into the room by a nurse who'd found her lost and wandering down on the second floor, and she proudly presents Artie with a little teddy bear holding a plush guitar. Artie's face is priceless, and he hugs her, making an off-hand comment that if he'd known getting hospitalised meant he'd get to hug so many Cheerios, he'd have done it sooner. I promptly elbow him. He settles the bear onto his bedside table, and the smile on his face makes me like Brittany that much more. We'd never really talked a lot before, but she sticks around for a while and it turns out she makes for  _very_  entertaining conversation. Bizarre, but entertaining.

Mr. Schuester comes by on Sunday morning and Artie's smile doubles when he sees what our Spanish teacher is carrying: sheet music. "These are some of the new songs we're going to be working on this week," he says, giving Artie the music. "I know you probably can't practice much in here, but I thought you'd like to at least look over it and get a feel for it so you're not completely unprepared when you come back." He claps Artie on the shoulder. "We can't afford to lose you before Regionals; Mercedes is already threatening murder if she has to do another duet with someone else."

"Thanks, Mr. Schue, this is awesome," Artie says, already browsing through the papers eagerly. We spend most of the day reading through the music, Artie miming playing the guitar chords while we sing along in undertones. This is what we're still doing when Mercedes and Kurt show up.

"Oh, you checkin' out the new songs," Mercedes says, looking at the papers in his lap as she climbs up to sit at the foot of the bed again, Kurt across from her. "Mr. S gave that one to White Boy, but I know if you'd been there it would totally have been yours."

"No, Finn's the male lead, it's right he gets it," Artie says and shrugs.

"Definitely not, I'm with Mercedes on this one," Kurt says, shaking his head. "As much as I appreciate Finn's talent, your smoky, soulful tone is much more appropriate for the music than his."

"Thanks guys, but really, it's cool," Artie says, even though he's looking pleased at the compliments. "This one's not really my thing. I like the other songs we've sung better."

Mercedes smiles and then sings, " _Rollin', rollin', rollin' on the river."_

I nudge Artie's side, prompting him, but he shakes his head. "I dunno, guys, this is a hospital," he says. "They might not appreciate it much."

"Oh, c'mon," I say, as Kurt and Mercedes put in another line of "rollin'," both giving him daring looks. "Music is medicine for the soul, they can't say no to medicine in a hospital, right?"

Mercedes grins at him and starts off softly, " _Left a good job in the city…"_

Artie hesitates a second longer and then smiles, joining in, " _Working for the man every night and day."_

Kurt and I clap out the tempo and cover the back-up harmonies as they keep singing, and it's so great to see Artie smiling like that again. I haven't heard him sing except the one line he'd sung with me the first night he'd been here, and I know it's his favourite thing to be doing. Especially this song, since this is  _his_  song. He struggles a little in keeping the breaths for his phrases, but his energy more than makes up for it and even though we started off quietly, we're not by the time the song's over.

At Artie's final note we hear clapping and look up to see a couple of nurses and doctors, as well as two patients, standing outside the doorway watching. Artie flushes bright red, still panting from the effort, and laughs.

"Yeah, you still got it, boy," Mercedes informs him.

"Thanks guys, it feels good to be singing again," Artie says but I notice that he's still breathing pretty heavy. I touch his arm lightly, a concerned look on my face, but he just smiles at me.

"Dear sweet Kristin Chenowith, if you two act any sweeter I'm going to go into insulin shock," Kurt suddenly says, making Artie and I look away guiltily. "But it's about time you realised you were meant for each other. You were both incredibly slow about it."

Artie and I exchange glances and I know he's thinking the same thing as me; neither of us told our other friends about our disastrous first date. They had known something was up when we started avoiding each other, but I'd never told them why I was mad at Artie and by the expression on his face he hadn't either. He lifts a shoulder slightly and I take that as an 'Eh, no pointing in telling them now.' I smile in agreement.

"So whaddya say, Wheels, got it in you for another song before Kurt and I gotta head?" Mercedes asks. "I miss singin' with you. I had to duet with Puckerman Friday and it was awful. His voice does  _not_  sound good with my chocolate thunder."

"I agree," Kurt says. "His voice does not suit chocolate. His voice is more like – bacon."

"But Mr. Schue says bacon and chocolate taste good together," Artie points out.

"It doesn't," I say and then blush when everyone looks at me curiously. "It was a dare," I explain and the others laugh. I grab Artie's hand and squeeze it, before saying, "Go on, you know you want to."

Artie pulls his bottom lip between his teeth for a minute, and then he smiles. " _Some times in our lives, we all have pain,_ " he starts and Mercedes beams in excitement. " _We all have sor-row._ "

This song draws an even bigger crowd, but Artie is so focused on the song that he doesn't notice all of the hospital staff hovering around the entrance to the room. I watch the enthusiasm in his face as he pours everything he's got into the music, surprisingly still keeping up with Mercedes almost as good as he does normally. It's only as they are winding into the last chorus that I hear his breathing really start to strain and his grip on my hand tightens just slightly.

He's panting like crazy when they finish, but nothing is wiping that smile off his face. The audience in the doorway erupts into applause, and Artie's grin stretches as he waves shyly at them.

"Alright, we gotta roll," Mercedes says. "School night. My dad'll kill me if I don't get home soon."

"Thanks again, you guys," Artie says, hugging them both as they get ready to go. There's the faintest wheeze to his breathing but he doesn't seem to be paying it any attention. "See ya later."

"Get better, Artie," Mercedes says kindly, surprising all of us by using his real name. She very rarely calls anyone but Kurt by their name. As she and Kurt walk out they both look back over their shoulders to wave, calling out "See you tomorrow"s and then vanish out into the hall.

"That was fun," Artie says, sinking back into the pillows with a smile still on his face. I lay down next to him and he turns his head to look at me. "Thanks for convincing me. It felt good."

"It did," I agree. "Glee's gonna be weird without you. I don't think I've ever been to a practice without you."

"Except that one when I was trapped in that janitor's closet," Artie puts in and I nod, frowning a little as I remember the time he's talking about. He laughs quietly, but it turns into a cough pretty fast.

"You okay?" I ask anxiously.

Artie nods until the cough subsides and then smiles. "Yeah, just winded," he says. "It's nothing." I'm not feeling too sure about that because I've noticed that Artie says 'It's nothing' a lot of the time when it's not. "So when's your mum coming to get you?" he asks, looking out at the clock.

"She's not," I say with a laugh, turning onto my side at an angle where I can keep an eye on his face for anything out of sorts.

"I thought you had to go home to go to school tomorrow," he says in confusion.

"Kurt is going to pick me up here in the morning on his way," I explain. "I don't want you to have to stay here by yourself overnight."

"You are amazing, Tee," he tells me and then pulls me in gently for a kiss. It still sends butterflies through my stomach just as much as it did the first time we kissed.

"I know," I say, settling my head down on his chest as he slips his arm around me. With his other hand he finds the remote and turns on the TV, flipping through the channels until we find an old, 80's stand-up comedy act (seriously, you can only find things like this on hospital TVs, because I've never seen these sort of things on TV at home.)

It's been about twenty minutes and I'm dozing off, getting woken up every time Artie laughs at something. I want to stay awake, but he's rubbing his hand lightly over my back and it's really hard not to feel crazy relaxed with him doing that. Just as I'm about to drift off again he breaks out laughing again so badly it makes me bolt up in surprise.

Instantly I can tell something is wrong. It's like my brain sort of grinds into slow motion as I watch the expression on Artie's face switch from amusement to fear. His one hand presses to his chest, while his other grips onto my arm tightly. He tries to take in a breath but it sounds sort of muffled like he's got a hand pressed over his mouth. For a few seconds he's struggling to get breaths in and then he looks up at me.

All I can see in that second is the terror in his face. His eyes are watering and his mouth is gaping as he tries to pull in air. His eyes are as wide as that time he woke up from his nightmare, and he looks almost as scared.

"Tee…" he wheezes, his hand tightening around my arm. "Breathe… can't…"

All of a sudden the world switches from slow motion to super speed. I break out of his grip and jump off the bed, stumbling on my sprained ankle before running to the door. "Doctor!" I scream into the hall. "We need a doctor!"

I'm shoved aside as a group of doctors and nurses bolt in the door. They practically build a wall around the bed as they get to work, so I can't see him anymore. I can hear the gasping noises coming from behind the shield of doctors, but after a moment even that stops. I slump against the wall, shaking, and suddenly it's just like being back in that waiting room again. Except that this time I can hear what they are doing, and even if I don't understand half of the words I can get the general gist of what's going on. I can't help but think that there's no way this could be any worse.

And then I hear the flatline.


	14. If, When, Maybe, Almost, Never

My whole world goes pure white. I can hear people shouting. I hear a high, electric whine that I'm pretty sure I've heard before but I can't place. Distantly, somewhere in the back of my mind, I register words like "clear" and "shock" and "hysteria" but the rest of my brain is oddly blank and everything sort of just slides right through without really sticking. I think someone might be touching me, but it feels weird, like I'm not actually me. Then finally I feel a sharp pain in my arm that actually manages to pierce the veil of white behind my eyes, and after that I don't feel or think anything.

When I finally do feel again, it feels like I'm being weighed down. I try to move but it's like I'm trapped. I can't see and I can't hear. It's sort of like I'm just suspended in a void. Even though I can feel pressure coming at me from every direction, it also feels sort of insubstantial. So then why can't I move?

Why do I  _want_  to move? This doesn't actually feel so bad now that I'm used to it. It's pleasantly warm and quiet. There's no stress or emotion or any of that white-hot panic I'd been feeling before this place. That was before this place, wasn't it? Where was that? And for that matter, where is  _here_?

I try to push those thoughts away. It feels good to not think. I don't want to have to think about anything right now. I'll just stay here and enjoy this down time. I don't want to go back and face whatever that was before that had me so freaked out.

What  _was_  that?

 _No, don't think about it!_  I can feel the comfort and security of this place starting to slip away the more my brain fixes on that question. Whatever scared me so badly is definitely not something I want to go back to, is it? So then why am I pulling myself toward it? Because I'm pretty sure now that, for some reason, I'm going toward that panic like I'm magnetised, no matter how hard I try to convince myself to stop.

My curiosity kicks up and I can't help but wonder what's drawing me so strongly. Wherever that place was that I was in before here was scary, so it doesn't make any logical sense for me to want to go back to it. It's not like I'm one of those people who gets high off being freaked. I'm not exactly an adrenaline junkie. So why on earth do I feel this weird desperate need to get back to that place?

All this damn thinking is ruining my nice place. Suddenly my brain is trying to pick apart every detail of everything, looking for some sort of answers. I don't want answers, dumb brain, I just want to stay in this peace. Except it's starting to feel less and less like peace now. It's not as warm or comfortable, and there are vague noises breaking through the background, shattering the quiet. Nothing is distinct, just hums and beeps and murmurs, but it's not the silence I'd had before and that's making me mad.

The last of the warmth leaves me and I shudder in its absence. Now I can hear, more clearly, a low rumble of voices and a high pitched beep that's slowly picking up in rhythm. Where have I heard that noise before? No,  _stop_  thinking, damn it!

My head is pounding and I groan at the dull throb in the back of my skull. It sort of feels like someone's repeatedly jabbing a really thick needle into my brain. My body is achy, like I've just blown through the fitness course in gym. Or like I've been beaten up. Considering that I'm coming back towards panic, it could very likely be either of them.

What was that panic about again? I never did figure it out. Might as well think about it now, since it seems very unlikely I'm going to be able to get back to that other calm place. _Work your way backward, Tina._ There was that nice, warm place I'd woken up in. Before that was… that prick in my arm, right. Where'd that come from anyway? Hmm, not important, the panic was already there before the prick.

 _Go back further._  Ugh, it's all just a blur. I can't remember seeing much. Of course then I can't actually see now either. Am I blind? That would be a cause for panic I suppose. Still, somehow that doesn't feel right. I was panicking about something else, something I'd seen or heard. What was that–?

Suddenly a pair of blue eyes flashes into my mind and I sit bolt upright, breathing heavy. That beeping noise in the background is going extra fast, which isn't making me feel any calmer. I look around me, trying to figure out where I am because it is most definitely not where I was before the white and then the black.

It's a small hospital room, and I'm sitting on a bed beneath the thin blanket. My head spins as I turn to look around and I reach down to grip the edges of the bed to stop myself from swaying. There's someone else in the room and it takes me a second to get her into focus.

"How are you feeling?" she asks me gently.

"Where's Artie?" The question is out of my mouth before I even think it. It hadn't occurred to me to ask it, but now as I look around and realise I'm definitely alone in the room I want an answer.

"You need to stay calm, honey," the woman in pink scrubs says, coming over and putting a hand on my arm. I flinch away from her, still looking for Artie. That's what I was so panicked about before. It's like all the pieces are falling into place now. He wasn't breathing, and then there was that awful monotone screech. He couldn't be... No, not Artie. He can survive anything, can't he?

"Is he all right?" I ask sharply.

"Sweetie, you really need to just calm down and listen to me," the woman says, kind but firm. "You've just had a pretty serious panic attack, you had to be sedated to get your hysterics under control. You really need to keep your heart rate steady or you're going to cause damage."

"Just tell me where Artie is, please," I say and by now I'm so scared I'm practically pleading. Why won't she tell me anything? People don't stall unless it's bad news, right? Oh God no, please don't let it be bad news. But if it's not bad news, why won't she just say  _something_?

The nurse sighs like she's annoyed, but she reaches for my shoulder again and squeezes it sympathetically. "Let me check you over and make sure you're all right first," she says and she pulls a little torch from her pocket, lighting it in front of my eyes. I blink and try to lean away from the light. I want to kick this woman as she takes her time going through a bunch of stupid little tests. The world is still sort of swaying, but I do a good job of keeping that from her notice in case it makes her take longer. No matter how many times I ask her, she won't give me any answers until she's signed the bottom of some chart with a flourish and tucked her pen away.

"Where is he?" I ask, staring straight into her eyes. She's not getting away with cold shouldering me this time. "Please, just tell me what happened to Artie."

The nurse purses her lips for a second, looking like she's steeling herself for something. "It was a complication from the surgery for his pulmonary embolism," she says and I feel my heart freeze solid in my chest. Had it come back? When he'd described it to me, he'd said that all of a sudden he couldn't breathe. Had it happened again? "His lung collapsed."

"Oh God," I breathe, letting my head fall into my hands. That sounds like it's even worse. "Is he–?"

"A collapsed lung is not necessarily a fatal complication," the nurse continues, still in that same perfectly smooth voice. Which means here comes the 'but'… "However because his organs were so weakened from the surgery, the collapsed lung put a large amount of stress on his heart. It caused him to go into cardiac arrest."

My whole body is shaking now and I can barely get the words out. "Please, is he okay?"

"He's alive," the woman says but the way she says it isn't very reassuring. It sounds like she's about to add 'for now' to the end of it, and I want to hit her for it. Which scares me because I'm not a violent person. "The doctors managed to restart his heart, and his lung has been inflated and is functioning again." How many 'buts' is this lady going to throw into this conversation before she just tells me what's going on?! "But he's not breathing on his own so he's on a ventilator."

"I need to see him," I say, looking up at her boldly. It's just like that resolution that had formed in me when I'd told Artie's parents I was coming up to the hospital at the beginning of all this. There is no other possible option, it's just instinct.

"What you  _need_  is a good rest," the nurse says.

"Which I'm not going to get until I see him," I reply flatly, folding my arms over my chest defiantly. The woman looks like she might argue with me again, but then she goes to the corner of the room and brings me a pair of crutches that were leaning against the wall. I almost faint with relief as I tear the blanket off me, grateful to see that I was left in my clothes.

"Be careful, your sedative most likely hasn't worn all the way off yet," the woman says as I slide off the bed onto my feet gingerly and she helps me to slip the crutches under my arms. They are uncomfortable, and I'm still having a hard time getting the world to stop moving around me, but I manage to follow her out of the room and into the hall.

I had only been moved to down the hall, so it doesn't take us all that long to get down to the room. All of the doctors have left it, and there's no one else in there except Artie. He's lying flat on the mattress, looking just as pale and fragile as he had after the surgery. In addition there's a huge machine parked next to the bed, with a thick tube running into Artie's open mouth, and it's emitting hissing puffs in time with the rise and fall of his chest.

The nurse is still hovering behind me as I cross to the bed awkwardly on the crutches, and I reach out to touch his face. He's still warm, which is reassuring, but he doesn't react in the slightest to my touch.

"We're not sure when he'll wake up," the nurse says. Her 'when' sounds distinctly more like an 'if.' I bite back a sob as it tries to claw its way up my chest. If she sees me getting worked up, she might take me away. "He's still responding to mental stimulus, so he's not comatose, but there's no saying for sure how long it will take his body to recover from this. It's been through a lot."

"Thank you," I say, not able to stop my voice from quivering like my lips are. The nurse touches my back lightly, and then turns to leave. "His parents?" I ask before she gets to the door, remembering them at the last second.

"They've been called, they're on their way," she says. When I nod she goes out into the hall. I hobble around to the other side of the bed and retrieve Artie's chair from where it's been pushed off to the side. Rolling it over to the bed, I tuck my crutches underneath the bed where they're out of the way, and then curl up awkwardly in the chair. My legs are pressed uncomfortably tight between my body and the armrest, but as I lean my head sideways against the chair back I can smell the vaguest traces of him, mixing with the smell of my shampoo.

This time I can't even bear to watch his face. It looks too unnatural how that plastic tube is stuffed down his throat. Instead I stare at his hand, lying limply on the mattress. How many times over the last few days have I held that hand? I reach out for it but I only make it halfway there before I stop. A dry sob escapes me as I pull my arm back into the cocoon of my body and I bury my face in my knees.

He'd been so close, so close to getting better. And now everything is back to being just a long lists of  _ifs_.


	15. Life on Autopilot

I'm still sitting in the same spot when the Abrams come in, and when I look up I see the same haunted look in their eyes that I imagine must be in mine. Mrs. Abrams takes one look at Artie and silent tears start rolling down her cheeks, and she goes to the bed and takes his hand. Mr. Abrams looks like he's shaking, but he comes over to me and pulls me up into his arms, and I collapse eagerly into his embrace. He's a lot bigger than me, tall like Artie but with a broader chest, and I'm practically engulfed in his arms.

We don't say anything to each other as we all take seats at the bedside. A doctor pokes his head in the door and Mr. Abrams steps out into the hall to talk to him for a moment before coming back and slipping back into his chair without a word. What feels like an hour later, a doctor brings me a bunch of forms I need to fill out since they've had to list me as a patient after my panic attack. I fill in the blanks mechanically and then silently hand them back to the doctor, who leaves without saying anything more.

The tension in the room is so thick it's crushing. All three of us are just sitting and staring and waiting. The only sound is the rhythm of the heart monitor and the constant puff of the ventilator. I'm starting to think that if things get any tenser I might just spontaneously combust or something. I can't help but think there's got to be something –  _anything_  – that I can do. If it weren't for the fact that I'm pretty sure it would break my ankle, I'd go out and run just to feel like I'm accomplishing something again.

There's a noise in the doorway and all of us look up. My mum smiles sadly back at me. In an instant, throbbing foot or not, I'm across the room and in her arms. She holds me against her chest, making soft shushing noises and petting my hair as I finally, really break down.

At some point my mum navigates us both to the floor and even though she's barely bigger than me anymore she pulls me into her lap and lets me curl into her chest like I did when I was a little kid. She rocks me gently until I run out of tears and hiccup myself into silence.

"C'mon, baby girl, let's get you home," she murmurs into my ear. This is the first time she's called me that since I was seven, and perhaps it's that that makes me at least stand up with her before arguing.

"But Artie," I say desperately, glancing back at him.

"You need to get some sleep," my mum says. "And that's not going to happen here."

"We won't leave him alone," Mrs. Abrams says, speaking for the first time tonight. "We'll let him know where you've gone, and I'll call you the minute he wakes up."

For a moment I consider refusing, but in the end I'm just too tired. My mum gets my crutches from under the bed and then pulls my schoolbag off the back of Artie's chair and swings it over her shoulder. I mumble back a response when the Abrams both wish me goodnight and then go with my mum down to the elevator.

The ride home is silent. Mom's even turned the radio down because the music seemed unnatural for the mood. When we're home she steers me into the house since I'm just sort of moving wherever she directs me. I change into my pyjamas but before I can climb into my bed my mum comes in and walks me into her room.

I haven't slept in her bed since I was four, but I don't hesitate to climb under the covers tonight. Everything feels sort of surreal, like I'm going through the motions but I'm not really in control of anything I'm doing. When Mum slips into bed with me she rubs a hand over my back until I cry myself to sleep.

My dreams are blurred and indistinct again. I can't make out anything of what I'm seeing, and the only thing I'm really positive about is the feeling of panic in me. Even though there are no real images, it doesn't take much imagination for me to figure out what I'm dreaming about.

In the morning I'm still just about as numb as the night before. Actually maybe more so because now I'm not breaking down crying constantly. Mum gets up and makes me breakfast while I'm in the shower, although I can hardly bring myself to stomach more than a few bits of the waffles. I distractedly remember to text Kurt and let him know not to bother picking me up at the hospital, but when he sends a text back asking why, I don't answer him. I'll tell them all at school and get it all done in one fell swoop.

Mum is late to work because she waits to drive me. I tell her I can walk but she takes one look at my ankle and tells me to get in the car. When I grab the crutches I took from the hospital, I really wish I had Artie's chair with me still. As much as it felt wrong to use it at first, right now it would be nice to have some sort of reminder of him with me.

My mum drops me off at the school, leaning over to kiss my cheek and telling me that she'll make sure her secretary comes to get her out of her meetings if I call. I nod, and for the first time since the panic attack I smile. It's not much of a smile, but it is one. It's nice to know that my mum always comes through for me when I really need her.

Kurt and Mercedes are waiting expectantly for me at my locker when I swing up on my crutches, and I can tell by the look on their faces that Kurt told Mercedes about my text. I had pretty much counted on that; they tell each other everything. "What's up, girl?" Mercedes asks the moment I reach them. "You and Wheels get in another fight?"

I swallow hard because there's a lump in my throat and shake my head. For a moment I consider saying I'll tell them in Glee, but then I don't think I'll be able to stand the looks I'll be getting all day. Today's already going to be hard enough. So I take a breath and tell them what happened after they'd left, with the smallest amount of detail as I can to keep the mental images at bay.

They react predictably horrified, and both of them start questioning me but before I can answer any of it the bell rings. "Hey guys," I say and they both look at me attentively. "Can you guys let everyone else know? I don't think I can tell it again."

"No problem, darling," Kurt says instantly. Mercedes crushes me in a hug and then we all head in different directions for class.

Mr. Spencer shoots me a curious glance when I come into class, but since I'm on crutches he doesn't make a comment about my being late again. Even though he looks like it's killing him not saying anything. I ignore his lecture again, not even bothering to pull out a notebook and pretend I'm listening this time. I stare sideways at the empty desk beside me, one hand resting on my pocket where my phone is on vibrate and praying it will ring.

It doesn't.

At the end of class, I go up to Mr. Spencer's desk to find out what I've missed and he hands me several worksheets. "Where's your friend?" he asks without much interest.

"In the hospital," I answer dully. I must be hallucinating from all the stress, because for a second it almost looks like Mr. Spencer's expression softens.

He pulls out another set of the worksheets and hands them to me. "Give those to him," he says. "And try to get them turned in as soon as you can, would you?" I nod and turn away, but before I'm halfway across the room he calls out after me. "Tina?"

I glance back, more than a little surprised that he knows my name since he always just calls me 'Miss.' He regards me for a second and then says, "I'm sorry. About your friend."

Despite the fact that I've hated this guy since the first day I set foot in his class, I smile a little. "Thanks," I reply. He nods and then sits down at his desk, turning his attention to his papers dismissively. I leave the classroom thinking I'm really going to have to tell Artie about this; he'll never believe me.

The rest of my classes pass pretty much the same. I sit in the back of the room, not even acting like I'm pay attention, and keep one hand on my phone. Several times I pull it out to check that it hasn't turned itself off like it does sometimes, or that the battery isn't dead, but the phone is always just fine and completely silent. At the end of each class I go up to get the assignments I've missed from the teachers.

Mercedes and Kurt must have done a good job of spreading the news to the Glee kids. Rachel runs up to me in the hallway between third and fourth period to give me a hug, pausing to inform me that's what she's doing right before wrapping her arms around me. Finn gives me a sad smile every time he sees me, and Puck even meets my eyes and gives a nod the one time we pass in the hall, which I take to be his macho way of conveying sympathy.

Lunch is awkward. I sit with Mercedes and Kurt as usual, but there's something unnerving about the empty space at the edge of the table where Artie usually sits, and we can all feel it. Quinn comes to join us, which isn't actually all that weird since she's sat with us a couple times since she was kicked off Cheerios when there's no one better to sit with. What is weird is when Brittany slides into the seat between me and Kurt.

"Hey," Brittany says, tossing her hair over her shoulder and poking at her salad with the fork.

"You're not sitting with the Cheerios," I say because it's the only thing I can think of. The statement comes out sounding more like a question.

Brittany shrugs and smiles at me. "I like you," she says simply. "Your hair is colourful." As her curious eyes drift to one of the blue streaks in my hair, I can't help the perplexed laugh that escapes me. She reaches up to touch the blue, beams that vacant Brittany smile that makes you wonder if she's really all there upstairs, and then offers me a grape off her tray.

Thankfully there are only two classes left after lunch and I manage to tough it out through them, although I'm sorely tempted to pull a Puck and sneak into the nurse's office for a nap. Not that I'd actually sleep, but just so I could get away from everyone. The only reason I don't is that being alone would give me time to think, and I know thinking will only lead to building up panicky worries.

After the last bell rings I make the rounds to the classes that Artie doesn't share with me and collect all of his homework too. I have to hold onto that hope that he'll be awake soon to do it. Most of his teachers give me weird looks about it, but apparently the fact that we're always together hasn't escaped notice from the faculty as well because they hand it all over to me without argument.

Once I've got everything put together, I make my way to the choir room. Mr. Schuester is waiting outside the door when I get there and when he sees me he gives me that same sad smile like the one Finn's been flashing me all day.

"How are you holding up?" he asks me.

"I'm okay," I say but I don't mean it and I can tell he doesn't believe it.

"Well I'm just hanging around here to let everyone know Glee's cancelled today," Mr. Schue says. "There's no point practising today, no one's going to be able to focus."

I give a half-smile. "He'd be pissed if he found out we're cancelling more practices for him," I say and Mr. Schue laughs quietly.

"Well then we're cancelling this one for you," he says and puts a hand on my shoulder. I look up at him and he gives me an encouraging smile. "Somehow I think he'll be okay with that. Don't worry, we'll pick up again tomorrow. You come back when you're ready."

"Thanks Mr. Schue," I say sincerely. "I'll be here tomorrow."

He nods and then picks up a piece of paper that's sitting on the desk just inside the door. He grabs a piece of tape and sticks the paper, which reads 'Glee Practice Cancelled Monday,' to the door, closing it securely behind him. "Do you need a ride?" he asks and I nod.

He leads me out to his car, a small and old model that's faintly rusted, and I climb into the passenger seat. If it were a normal day I would probably feel extremely awkward riding shotgun in my teacher's car, but it's not a normal day. There's nothing even remotely close to normal about today. Mr. Schuester drives us straight up to the hospital.

"Tell him we all say hi," he says when he's put the car into park in the temporary parking space. "And to get better soon."

"Thanks, I will," I say, climbing out and managing to manoeuvre my crutches out from the odd way they'd been stuck into the car. "Thanks for the ride. See you tomorrow."

"Bye, Tina," Mr. Schue says and once I'm heading into the hospital I see him drive back in the direction of the school. Feeling just a little bit better than this morning, I go up to Artie's room. His mum is still sitting in one of the chairs and she smiles at me as I walk over and join her. She takes one of my hands and grips it reassuringly, and we lapse into a steady silence as we wait.


	16. Can't Live, Can't Breathe With No Air

I've always know that the waiting is the hardest part, that's common knowledge, but I never thought it could possibly be this bad. Even though there is usually at least two of us in the room, we don't ever actually talk much. His parents take it in shifts; Mrs. Abrams stays through the daytime while Mr. Abrams is at work, and he stays through the night so she can go home and sleep. I get to the hospital after school and stay until after dark when my mum brings me home.

I spend most of my time at the hospital getting caught up on my homework. I've discovered that as much as I hate studying, it seems like a blessing compared to sitting around doing nothing. At school I'm still on autopilot, although I'm more responsive than that first day, and just like I told Mr. Schue, I go back to Glee club after school.

Because of my ankle I can't get up and learn the choreography with everyone else, so I sit on a chair off to the side, watching and singing along. It occurs to me that this is how Artie must have felt every day. The only plus side is that without the choreography to worry about, I can just close my eyes when we sing. It stops me from looking for the person I know won't be there. Unfortunately nothing stops me from listening for him.

On Wednesday my dad calls from his hotel in Thailand while I'm sitting at the hospital. Mum had called him to tell him what happened and he wanted to check on me. It feels good to talk to him, since this is the first time I've heard from him in three weeks, and he promises me he'll work extra hard so he can be home by Monday. Before he hangs up, he reminds me how much he loves me and for the first time in years he calls me his  _gong-ju_ , his princess, a Korean nickname he gave me as a baby.

The Glee kids come in from time to time, but for the most part they don't stay long. I think they're coming to check on me more than they're coming for Artie anymore. They know if something happens I'll let them know, but every time they come in they ask, "Any change?" Either Kurt or Mercedes drives me up to the hospital every day after Glee and they sit with me for a while. It doesn't make the waiting any easier, but it feels good to just know they're there.

Sometimes when I've got my iPod on to break the silence, I will lean over and push one of the headphones into his ear. I had expected that his parents might give me weird looks for doing it, but they just smile and go back to whatever they're doing. Music is as much a comfort for him as it is for me, and I like to think that even if he doesn't really understand it, it's making him feel better or at least less scared. I always skip the songs I know he doesn't really like, and sometimes I repeat the ones with the great guitar solos he loves.

I don't really notice the change until I think back over it, but the more days that go by the less the quiet holds. On Wednesday night, after my dad calls, Mr. Abrams asks me about his work and we spend most of the evening talking about my dad's business and all the conferences he goes to. Thursday night when my mum comes to get me she stops to talk with Mrs. Abrams and they chat idly for an hour. Come Friday when I show up, both of Artie's parents are there and we talk about school and jobs and Glee and our families. We distract each other with our conversations, and we stop looking toward the bed as often.

Fear is building in my chest and it sits like a thick knot against my ribcage. The nurse had said they had no idea when he would wake up, and every time the doctor came to check, it was the same response. "He'll wake up when his body is ready." But it's been almost a week now and I haven't seen the slightest bit of change in him yet, and I can't help but be afraid. So I launch back into a conversation about something Mr. Abrams had seen on the news that morning, and keep my eyes from drifting hopefully to the bed.

Early Saturday morning, I'm still at the hospital. My mum has let me stay overnight again since it's the weekend, (and because she needs to go into the office for most of the weekend to make up the time she missed by staying home to drive me to school every morning.) Mrs. Abrams is home asleep and Mr. Abrams has just left to go get us some breakfast. I'm sitting in the room alone and for the first time in several hours, I look over at him.

No change. He looks exactly like he did three hours ago. And exactly like he did the night before. And the day before that. Whoever said that consistency is a good thing deserves to be shot. Well, at least he isn't any worse.

As I'm staring at him a song pops into my head. I'm not really surprised by that, because for years it seems like everything makes me think of a song, but what surprises me is which song it is. I've never actually sung it before, and when I heard it on the radio I wasn't even that impressed by it. Not to mention that while I can normally appreciate life's ironies, this one just seems cruel. And maybe I'm masochistic because I start singing, quietly, anyway.

" _If I should die before I wake, it's cause you took my breath away. Losing you is like living in a world with no air._ "

My breath shudders as I think about it. I'm singing about not being able to breathe to a guy on a ventilator. But I can't make myself stop. Because really, this isn't about him not being able to breathe; it's about the fact that I haven't been able to take a real breath since the moment he stopped. That I'm not going to breathe easily again until he's back.

" _But how do you expect me to live alone with just me, 'cause my world revolves around you. It's so hard for me to breathe._ "

This week without him has been hell. We had grown inseparably close since this whole thing had started, all of those days of talking and playing thumb wars, and all those nights sleeping side-by-side watching cheesy movies that only people like us enjoy. I had never imagined that as a sophomore in high school I might spend my nights sharing a bed with my boyfriend, because really it just sounds sort of trampy, but somehow with Artie it just seems okay. Maybe it's because he's too good a guy for it to turn into anything bad, or maybe it's just because I care about him so much it doesn't matter.

It isn't fair, that after all this, after how much we'd overcome to get to this point and get so close again, that this had to happen. Things had been looking so wonderful. He was getting healthy again, we're a couple, and we were going to go back to school and slip back into life the way it was supposed to be with smiles on our faces. I haven't seen him smile in six days. I haven't seen him do  _anything_  in six days.

" _But somehow I'm still alive inside, you took my breath, but I survived. I don't know how but I don't even care._ "

"He's right, you are good." I jump in surprise and look up. Mr. Abrams smiles at me as he comes back in, carrying a paper bag and two Starbucks cups. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," he says as he slips down into the chair beside me and offers me one of the cups. I hadn't been much of a coffee drinker before this, (because of my dad we usually drink tea at my house), but I'm really starting to get dependent on the stuff.

"It's okay," I say, feeling self-conscious and dipping my head to take a sip of coffee. "I just – it makes me feel better sometimes."

"He's the same way," Mr. Abrams says. I've noticed that we don't actually say his name anymore. I guess by now we all just assume that when we say 'he' we mean him. Besides, I don't know about them but whenever I say his name my throat gets tight. "We can always tell when he has a bad day at school because he comes home and goes straight into his room to play guitar and sing." He smiles softly and adds, "After you guys had that fight, he played for more than an hour, and then every day for about two weeks afterwards."

I blush and don't dare to look up from my coffee. "Three Days Grace?" I ask with a smile, thinking of Artie's favourite band to listen to when he's mad, which isn't actually often despite how much crap he takes.

"I don't know who that is," Mr. Abrams admits with a laugh. "That first night the music was pretty heavy, but it softened out as it went along. By the end of the first week it all sounded like ballads. I heard a lot of Phil Collins. Or at least that's one of the only ones that was old enough that I recognised it." Mr. Abrams chuckles quietly, but all I can think is  _Phil Collins did a 'True Colours' cover…_

The paper bag rustles and he holds out a chocolate éclair in a napkin. I glance up at him in surprise, and he smiles. "I thought you could use a bit of a pick-me-up," he says as I take it from him. "Try it, they're delicious." I sniff it apprehensively and then take a bite, and I can't help but smile a little. It's bizarre, but in a good way. "Told you," he says, smirking in a way that's so unmistakably like his son, before starting on his own éclair.

We're quiet as we eat our breakfast and afterwards we just sit comfortably for a moment. Or as comfortable as you can feel while sitting at someone's bedside in a hospital while waiting to see if they'll ever wake up. It's kind of a weird way to bond, but I've gotten really comfortable with the Abrams over the last week especially. I'm not quite as nervous about making a complete idiot of myself at least, and I don't blush quite as often. Except occasionally when Mrs. Abrams tells me how grateful she is to have such a wonderful girl to care for her little boy. It's hard not to be embarrassed about that one.

I've never been one to get along with my friends' parents before. They usually take one look at my fishnet gloves and highlighted hair and decide right away I'm a bad person. The Abrams don't do that. Maybe it's because of living with Artie, or maybe they've just always been that way and that's where Artie learned it from, but for some reason when they look at me I feel like they don't see any of it, or that they look straight past it. It's kind of nice, even if it is a little disconcerting.

"So was that a song from Glee?" Mr. Abrams asks curiously. It takes me a minute to figure out what he means.

"Oh, no, that's just one I know," I say. "Another girl in the club, Rachel, he might have mentioned her," going by the small smile on Mr. Abrams face, she'd been mentioned before, "she sang it."

"He complains that she takes all your solos," Mr. Abrams says with a laugh. "I think I first really heard it about Rachel when that solo from West Side came up. He was ranting about that one for several days straight."

I smile, remembering that disaster. "It's okay, I couldn't hit the note anyway," I say with a shrug. "It was way out of my range."

"Not according to him," Mr. Abrams says, smiling. "He was convinced that you were the best for the part and that Rachel was stealing your spotlight. I haven't seen him that worked up about anything in a long time. That's when I first started getting the impression he had a crush on you."

"I thought that was when he told you he was joining Glee," I say curiously.

"No, that's when Judy picked up on the hints," Mr. Abrams says, trying very hard not to laugh. "She's a bit quicker about those things than I am. She tries to convince me she's know since the day he met you and came home from school all excited to tell us that he'd made a new friend. A pretty new girl in his class that had lunch with him."

So much for not blushing as much anymore. "He said that?"

"And not a mention of your stutter," Mr. Abrams says with a nod. "We were pretty surprised the first time you came over to our house and we heard it, because he'd never said anything about it before."

I look down at my feet guiltily, staring at the chipped toenail polish on my bandaged foot. I didn't know how much he'd told his parents about my stutter, but it wasn't something I really wanted to talk about.

"You know, when I was in high school I was on the track team," Mr. Abrams says conversationally, and when I glance over he's not looking at me, just sort of staring off across the room. The way he says it makes it sound like he's talking more to himself than to me, but I listen anyway. "I was a really fast runner, but I was a bit of a klutz. And there was this girl, I'd had a thing for her since elementary school, and she said she was coming to watch me run. I was mortified that I might trip in the middle of a race and everyone would laugh at me, and that she would be embarrassed for coming to support a loser. The day of that first big race, I showed up on crutches with my leg in a cast."

"You broke your leg right before the race?" I ask, looking up at him in surprise.

"Nope, I faked it," he says and casts a short glance at me before staring off at the wall again. "I was so terrified of screwing up that I went out and got a fake cast put on so I wouldn't have to run."

"How'd that work out?"

"Terrible," he says and laughs. "I thought it would work at first, but then Coach cut me from the team because I wouldn't be able to run all season. I wanted to fess up and tell the truth, but I was too scared that no one would forgive me. That fear haunted me through the rest of high school. My relationship with that girl didn't even last a month. I couldn't stomach the guilt when she asked me how my leg was healing. I never tried out for track again even though it was what I really wanted to do."

"Wow," I say quietly thinking over what he'd said. I feel a little bit breathless considering what he's telling me. I'm not so dense that I don't notice the similarities, but I'm still trying to figure out just what he is getting at. "The moral?" I ask curiously and Mr. Abrams laughs.

"You've got a lot more nerve than I did, Tina," he says. "We all do stupid things when we're scared, but in the end you did the one thing I couldn't: you told the truth. Making up a ruse is easy, keeping it up is a little bit harder, but getting out of it is almost impossible. Accepting that you've made a mistake and facing the consequences is something that most people can't do. And in the end, that's why he forgave you."

I stare at my toes some more, chewing over his words. When I look up, I'm smiling. "Thanks, Mr. Abrams."

"Ben," he says gently. "I think we're on first name basis now, you can call me Ben." I nod and we lapse back into the quiet. Mr. Abrams picks up the book he's left on the bedside table (the fourth one he's read this week) and opens it, while I pick up my maths homework and start scratching my way through it.

I'm not sure how much later it is when I hear Mr. Abrams look up from his book. I glance sideways at him as he yawns, and then suddenly his eyes narrow and his forehead furrows.

"What-?" I ask but then I follow his gaze and realise just 'what.' The air catches in my throat and I don't dare breathe.

His hand is moving.


	17. Welcome Back to Reality

"Artie?" Mr. Abrams asks carefully, standing up and crossing to the bed. It takes my brain a full second longer to come up with the same idea. Artie's forehead is furrowed and I can see now that both of his hands are fisted. He makes a muffled gasping noise and I almost fall over in relief.

"Hey, Sport, careful there," Mr. Abrams says, reaching over to put a hand on either side of Artie's face. "Let the machine breathe for you or you're gonna choke. And don't move your head, alright?"

The gasping noise stops and more wrinkles form at the corner of Artie's eyes, like he's trying to blink with his eyes still shut. I tentatively put my hand over his and he relaxes it so my palm rests flat over his own. My heart is beating at a pretty normal pace, but it feels like it's beating doubly hard against my ribs to the point where it's almost painful and leaves me feeling a little breathless.

Mr. Abrams glances at me, down at my ankle, and then back at Artie. "Alright, hold on there, buddy," he says. "Tina's gonna stay with you while I go get your doctor, okay?"

Artie closed-eye-blinks again. Mr. Abrams turns and goes to the door, while I curl my fingers around Artie's hand. "Hey, Artie," I say quietly. The corner of his lips twitch just slightly and his fingers wrap around the side of my hand.

His eyes are moving slowly beneath his eyelids, and I catch the occasional glimpse of white as his lids lift a fraction. The doctor comes in, a smiling middle aged man, and he leans over Artie, placing a hand on his forehead. Artie flinches reflexively away from the touch and his grip on my hand tightens.

"Oh, sorry there," the doctor says. "I didn't mean to scare you. You finally going to come back to us, kid?"

Artie makes the faintest noise in his nose and I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself laughing because I recognise the sound as one he makes when he's annoyed. He hates being called 'kid' by anyone. I glance across at Mr. Abrams and his smile makes me think he knows that too.

The doctor turns to check the machines by the bed while Artie continues to struggle with getting his eyes open. I wish there is something I could do to help, but what can I really do? It's slow moving, (his eyes  _have_  been closed for the last six days straight) but eventually I see blue as well as white. The moment his eyes open enough for the pupils to show he shuts them again, wincing at the light.

"Can't you turn off the lights?" I ask, looking over at the doctor. "They're hurting his eyes."

The doctor shakes his head. "No, we've got to make sure his eyes are dilating properly."

It takes a little longer, but finally Artie opens his eyes to a squint and I see his gaze start slipping around the room. He stares in confusion for a second at the doctor and his dad, and then his eyes slide over to me and I see recognition. I know he can't actually see me very well because he doesn't have his glasses on, but I suppose I'm still the exact same black-and-blue blur he remembers.

"Welcome back," I say and the corners of his mouth inch upwards. It looks oddly distorted around the plastic tube, but it doesn't change the fact that it's his smile. My heart soars.

My knees are shaking so badly that I have to sit down, but I still hold onto Artie's hand while the doctor moves his bed into a sitting position, and then checks his eyes and that his limbs are all still responsive, or at least the ones that were to begin with. The doctor explains procedure for removing the ventilator tube, which to me sounds like it basically comes down to 'you cough and I'll rip it out quick as I can.' Artie's grip tightens on my hand as he does what the doctor says. And, by the way, it turns out my summary was right, that's exactly how procedure goes down. The moment the tube is out of his mouth, Artie makes a face of disgust and starts licking his chapped lips. He looks like he's having a bit of trouble getting his tongue to do what he wants it to.

"Alright, you've got to be really careful now," the doctor informs him, leaning over to turn off the ventilator. The absence of the puffing noise that's been there for so long now sounds sort of weird. "Easy on the breathing, don't get worked up. Your throat is going to be really sensitive for a while, so no talking for a few days. Otherwise you'll wind up coughing and collapsing your lung again."

Artie looks a little annoyed by this, but he nods compliantly. "Oh, and try and keep your head still for the most part too," the doctor adds. "If you move it too quickly you'll aggravate your throat. I'll bring in a cup of ice chips, I'm sure your mouth is feeling pretty dry." The doctor gives Artie's knee a quick pat (which makes all three of us exchange glances torn between confusion and amusement) before walking out the door.

"Hey, Sport, how you feeling?" Mr. Abrams asks, coming over to sit down on the foot of the bed. Artie gives him a thumbs up, even though he still can't keep his eyes all the way open and it makes him look sort of stoned. "Welcome back."

Artie glances sideways at me and then pulls his hand out of mine, miming writing. I nod and bend down to dig into my backpack, finding my notebook and a pen. He takes the pen from me as I set the open notebook on the bed beside him. His handwriting is bigger than usual and kind of difficult to read, probably because he can't see to write, but I manage to decipher it.

"How long was I out?" I read slowly.

"Six days," Mr. Abrams answers and Artie's eyes widen. "Yeah, you had us pretty scared."

"What happened?" I read off as he writes it. I let Mr. Abrams explain it, because honestly I don't understand all the technicalities. Artie seems to understand it for the most part though because he just nods and then writes three words. "Wow that sucks." Mr. Abrams and I both laugh, and Artie manages a smile.

The doctor comes back with a paper cup of chipped ice, and Artie puts down the pen to take it. I watch as he tips some of the ice into his mouth and sucks on it, and he seems to be savouring the feeling. Expected, I suppose, when you have your mouth hanging open for a week. The inside of his mouth is probably desert dry.

"Can I talk to you out in the hall, Mr. Abrams?" the doctor asks and Mr. Abrams follows him out. As they walk out, Artie wedges the cup between his knees and then looks at me and taps the corner of his eye with a finger. I find his glasses and hand them to him, and once he has them on he picks up the pen and writes quickly. Once he's finished he touches my arm and points to it, an earnest look in his eyes.

_Are you ok? I remember you screaming_

"I screamed?" I ask in surprise and there's a deadly serious look on his face when he nods. "Weird, I don't remember that. But I'm fine," I assure him. He keeps staring at me pointedly so I sigh and continue, "Really, I'm okay, I just had an anxiety attack. Your heart stopped beating, and that sort of freaked me out."

Artie has a guilty look on his face as he starts writing. He gets out ' _Sor'_  before I grab his hand and stop him. "Don't apologise," I say in exasperation. "It's not like it was exactly something you could stop. If anything I should be the one saying sorry. I kept pushing you into singing those songs and that's what put all the stress on your lungs."

For a second Artie just stares at me, dumbfounded, and then starts writing.  _Don't you apologise, you didn't know either._

I sigh heavily, watching him, and I can feel myself shaking. Artie apparently notices because he lifts the notebook into his lap and pats the spot beside him invitingly. I smile at the familiarity of it and climb up to sit next to him, sitting close enough that our arms are pressed against each other and my leg is flush with his through the blanket. He might not be able to feel it but I can, and it's comforting to be so close to him again after a week of almost no contact at all.

Artie arranges the notebook on his thigh and writes,  _Are you sure you're okay?_

Even I can tell my laugh comes out a little bit hysterical. "Yes, you persistent, crazy, wonderful moron," I say and I can feel my eyes burning. Artie looks surprised for a minute but then he puts down the pen and reaches up to brush his fingertips over my cheek, wiping away the tear that escaped.

"I'm sorry," I say, trembling. A week of numbness is caving in on me and I'm having a hard time keeping it at bay. This should be a happy moment, he's finally awake, but now that he's back I can finally feel the true horror of what it would have been like to lose him and that thought shakes me to my core. "I'm just – it's been a rough week and I'm not – " I trail off, knowing I'm not going to find words for it.

Artie watches me for a second and then grabs the cup from between his knees and takes another mouthful of ice chips. For such a casual act, there's a very determined look on his face. Once they've all melted, he reaches his hand around to the base of my neck and draws my face closer until our foreheads touch. I can feel his breath, cold from the ice, ghosting along my jaw. When I look up at him, he's staring straight into my eyes.

"Tee…" His voice is a coarse whisper, rough and raw, and even with that single syllable I can see the wince in his eyes.

"Artie, you're not supposed to talk," I remind him, although the sound of him finally saying my nickname again after all this silence brings a fresh wave of tears to the surface.

Artie frowns and, left-handed so he doesn't have to take his other hand off my neck, he scrawls out a line on the notebook. It's even harder to read, especially since I can't bring myself to pull my forehead away from Artie's so I'm reading out of my peripheral vision.

_Just this one thing._

I want to argue but I can't make myself say the words. Artie sees the surrender in my eyes and his expression softens. His thumb is rubbing a gentle line on the side of my neck. I see him steeling himself and then he whispers, "I missed you too."

And suddenly six days of fear and emptiness collapse on me, and I can't fight against it any more. I let my head fall against Artie's shoulder and his arm moves down around my back, rubbing slow circles against the soft spot between my shoulder blades. I want to hug him and hold on so tightly he can't go away, but I'm afraid of doing something to hurt him so I just curl in on myself, keeping my face pressed into his collar and shuddering against his side. I'm not really crying, because I did enough of that the night his lung collapsed. Mostly I'm just shaking uncontrollably, and the few tears that do get out of me don't last very long before drying out. Artie just keeps running his hand over my back and I feel him rest his head on the top of mine.

When I finally get myself back under control I sit up, brushing my hands over my cheeks quickly in case there are any tears left. Artie is looking at me questioningly, opens his mouth, and then frowns and grabs the pen. His writing is fast and messy.

_Are you gonna be ok?_

"I am now," I say, taking another breath to steady myself. "But I swear to God, you scare me like this again and I am so done with you, Artie Abrams."

Artie just smiles and scribbles out his response.

_Ok, Tina Cohen-Chang, it's a deal._

"You're a dork," I inform him, and then lean forward to kiss his cheek. "But I'm glad you're back."


	18. Making Adjustments, Making Compromises

It doesn't take long before Artie's asleep again. His mum barely has time to get up here and see him awake before he drifts off. I'm a little worried about it, but the doctor assures us this is normal and that his body is still healing so he'll probably sleep a lot over the next few days.

The Abrams offer to give me a ride home if I want to go sleep, but I turn them down. "I don't think I could sleep right now," I lie even as I feel a yawn swelling in my chest. I bow my head on the pretence of adjusting the wrap on my ankle so that my face is hidden by my hair as the yawn actually escapes. I make myself comfortable sitting on the foot of the bed, nudging Artie's legs out of the way a little so there's room, and pull my homework back out.

About two hours later, I remember that I made a promise and I dig out my phone. I open a text to Mercedes and type, ' _Arties back, doing good but sleeping now. Let u know when he's up for visits. Spread the word._ '

It's only midday now and Mum drops by to bring me some lunch. She frowns that I didn't call to tell her Artie was awake, but she still gives me a huge hug and says to let him know that she's glad he's awake. She stays to talk with the Abrams for several hours, and I have to admit it makes me pretty happy to see our parents getting along so well. My mum is pretty intense with her business work persona, so she comes off a little strange to some people, but the Abrams don't seem to notice or care.

Mum leaves just before four to go get ready for dinner with a client, and once again I turn down the offer to go home. She doesn't seem surprised by this, and just kisses me on the cheek before leaving. A half hour later Artie finally wakes up again, and he's looking a lot more attentive than he was before.

When he opens his mouth to talk I toss the notebook into his lap. He glances down at it and then frowns, rolling his eyes, but takes the pen I offer him. As he writes I read out his words to his parents.

"How many days did I miss this time?" I read off and then laugh.

"Only seven hours this time," Mr. Abrams says and it's nice to see real smiles on everyone's faces finally. "How you feeling?"

"Better," I read off for him. "Although I'm having a hard time focusing with her reading everything the second I write it." I huff and glare at him as his parents laugh. "Well fine then, you can stay mute," I say and he just smirks at me, reaching over and squeezing my knee.

"Be nice to her, Artie, she's hardly left your side in two weeks," Mrs. Abrams says and I feel an odd sort of satisfaction as Artie's cheek redden. Until I realise mine are too, anyway.

Artie writes something down and then puts the notebook in my lap. I read it quickly before saying it aloud. "You all look dead on your feet. Go home."

"Nice to see you too," Mr. Abrams says with a light laugh. Artie smiles but points at the sentence again. "We were just staying to make sure you were all right."

This time Artie takes the notebook back and writes something new before giving it to me. "I'm all right. Now go sleep."

"We're fine too," Mrs. Abrams says.

"Really, Artie, it's okay," I say. The amount of scepticism on his face should be illegal. "It's not like we've been skipping out on sleep, we've all still been sleeping." Of course at this moment, Mr. Abrams ineffectively hides a yawn behind his hand and Artie notices.

Rolling his eyes, Artie tugs the notebook out of my hand, scribbles quickly, and then holds it up so we can all read it. He's written 'GO SLEEP' in huge letters and underlined it at least six times. We're all laughing, but Mr. Abrams holds up his hands in surrender.

"Alright, alright, don't have a cow," he says. "Fine, we'll go sleep." I see the way he stands up slowly, keeping a hand on his back, and I know why. Most of the sleep Mr. Abrams has gotten over the last week has been in that chair. That's probably the only reason he's giving in to Artie's argument. If I'd been sleeping on a hard plastic chair for a week, a bed would sound pretty tempting to me too.

"Okay, honey, if that's what you want," Mrs. Abrams says but I can tell she's even more reluctant to leave. Artie's expression softens but he nods. "We'll be back in a couple hours, okay?" She comes over to give him a kiss, and Mr. Abrams follows suit, and they both head for the door.

"Tina?" Mr. Abrams asks, glancing back over his shoulder and pausing to wait for me.

"Oh I'm not going," I say. Artie makes a noise of annoyance but I ignore him. "I'm not sleep-deprived in the slightest; I've been going home to sleep every night unlike you guys. I'll be fine."

Mr. Abrams looks past me to Artie. "Whaddya say, Sport?"

Artie scrawls out something and then hands the notebook to me. "I've given up arguing with her a long time ago," I read off. I notice that underneath it he's written, in parenthesis, _(when'd you get so annoyingly stubborn?)_

The Abrams adults exchange glances and smiles. "Smart boy," Mr. Abrams says and then they say goodbye to both of us and leave.

"I'm not stubborn, I'm determined," I inform him as I turn back to face him. Artie just rolls his eyes and takes the notebook from me. I scoot over to sit next to him so we don't have to pass it back and forth.

_Are you sure you're really not tired?_

"I really have been going home to sleep," I say honestly. "Mum was making me, just like she made me go to school."

_Remind me to thank her_

I laugh and shake my head. "That reminds me, I've got a mountain of homework for you," I say. "Turns out the teachers don't go easy on you even when you're in the hospital. Although, it does make Mr. Spencer be nice to me." Artie's eyes widen in surprise. "I know, freaked me out too."

We both smile and then sink back against the pillows. For a couple minutes, Artie just taps the pen against the paper, again in sync with the heart monitor. Then finally he starts writing again.  _So have I missed any other apocoliptic occurrences at school?_

"You spelled 'apocalyptic' wrong," I point out and Artie pokes me with the pen until I laugh. "Okay, sorry." I spend the next hour telling him about everything that I can remember happening all week, no matter how mundane it is. Artie listens attentively to all of it, using overly-exaggerated facial expressions to convey his reactions so that I wind up spending more time laughing at his faces than actually speaking.

After we've settled into a comfortable quiet again, Artie writes out a line and I read it curiously.

_It's Saturday, right?_

"Yeah," I answer. "Why?"

 _We've been a couple one week as of yesterday._  I pause to think about it and realise it's true. It feels like a lot longer than that, but it really was only last Friday when we'd gotten together.  _What a first week, huh?_

"Yeah kinda," I agree. We get together in a hospital after he's been through life-saving surgery and then I promptly drug him. Not two days later, he nearly dies again and spends the rest of our first week unconscious.

I glance sideways at Artie's face and my heart plummets. "Artie, I know what you're thinking and stop it," I say sternly. He looks up at me and doesn't even bother to feign innocence. "Don't start trying to be noble."

Artie opens his mouth and I hear him starting to make noise before promptly shutting his mouth, looking frustrated. He pulls the notebook onto his leg better so he can write, simultaneously making it so I can't read what he's writing until he finishes and hands it to me.

_T, things like this are just going to keep happening with me for the rest of my life, and nothing will change that. I don't want to watch you go through this again. It hurts me too much._

"Damn it, Artie," I say angrily, letting out an agitated breath and pulling a hand back through my hair. Artie visibly recoils. "Do you think that I don't know this? I know, Artie. Ever since we became friends I've been learning everything I could about paralysis. I wanted to be able to understand what you're going through, and help you if you ever needed it." I can feel my chin quivering and I take a deep breath to steady it. "When are you going to get it in your head that I've accepted you, and everything that comes with you?"

Artie looks down, shame evident on his face, and I watch him twist his hands in his lap. I feel a little guilty about snapping at him like that, (I've never actually sworn at him before), but I'm done listening to his attempts at being noble and I need him to understand. There's tense quiet in the room for several minutes. Artie rubs the corners of his eyes and then looks up at me. My stomach twists uncomfortably when I see that his eyes are red, but he meets my gaze steadily and mouths, "I'm sorry."

"I know," I say. Artie opens his mouth, rolls his eyes in annoyance, and then finds the pen again.

_It's just - I watch what my parents have to go through every time and I don't want to put another person through that, especially not you._

"You're not getting rid of me that easy," I say and Artie actually smiles. I turn onto my side so I'm facing him. "Artie, you spend all this time worrying about everyone else. Why don't you think about yourself for once? Is this relationship what  _you_  want?" Artie meets my eyes and I can already see the answer there even before he nods. "Then trust me to let you know if I think it's too much. Okay? You know me; I always let people know what I think."

Artie smiles again and out of the corner of my eye I see him write,  _That's the truth._  I laugh and rest my head against his shoulder.  _Thanks, T._

"Anytime," I answer and I feel the quiet laugh vibrate through his body. As I'm making myself comfortable, I see Artie start writing again.

_You actually are tired, aren't you?_

I glance up at him and he's smiling that smile he gets when he knows he's right. "Maybe," I say evasively. Artie's smile widens, and I shrug. "I haven't talked to you all week, I didn't want to leave."

Artie looks thoughtful for a moment and then writes,  _I'm kinda tired too. Movie?_

"Nothing funny," I say as I hand him the remote. "We're not doing that one again." Artie smiles at the comment as he flips through the channels and lands on  _Casablanca_. "This'll work." Artie sets the notebook off to the side and then holds his arm out for me to curl up with him. I hesitate, looking at his chest apprehensively. It seems he knows what I'm thinking because he points to the other side of his chest and shakes his head, and then points to the side nearest me and nods. I get the hint; all the problems are on the other side.

I lay down again, settling my head on the curve on his shoulder, and he wraps his arm around me. He tilts his head so his cheek is resting on top of my head, and I feel his breath fluttering my hair slightly. As his hand finds mine, everything suddenly feels right again. And I have the best sleep I've had in a week.


	19. Taking Stock

I must have been even more tired than I thought because the sky's just beginning to lighten with morning outside when I wake up. The TV is off and Artie is fast asleep. As I glance around the room I notice that the chairs have been moved to the side of the bed opposite me. Apparently Artie'd had visitors while I was asleep.

My curiosity rises when I see the notebook leaning against Artie's knee. The page with our conversations has been turned and this fresh page is covered in that awkward, angled writing that means Artie was writing left-handed again. I reach over and delicately pick it up to read.

_Better. Just can't wait til I can talk again_

_She went out pretty fast_

_Just leave her. She's exhausted, I don't want to wake her_

_I know_

_Ok_

_I think I'm going back to sleep too_

_Ok I'll see you tomorrow_

_Love you too_

I smile as I lay the notebook back down by his leg. If the conversation was anything to judge by, Artie's parents had come back up to visit. I was even more impressed that I'd managed to sleep through it, since I'm normally a pretty light sleeper. This week, or actually the last week and a half, has been really wearing.

Letting out a sigh, I let my head fall onto Artie's shoulder again. He grunts in his sleep and tightens his arm around my back, but he doesn't wake up. As I make myself comfortable, I stare up at the ceiling and take stock of my brain.

I'm pretty sure I've never been through such a dramatic emotional whirlwind before in my life. Ok, not  _pretty_  sure; I'm positive. I've blown through emotions I didn't even know I was capable of experiencing. I think back over that initial panic I'd felt when Mrs. Abrams had called, and then the brutal anticipation of the waiting room. The memory of praying brings a smile to my face and I wonder for a second if maybe I  _should_  take up religion.

Then there was that sweeping relief when he'd woken up, that pure joy at the normalcy of our time together. That beautiful leaping feeling in my chest when we kissed, and the happiness of getting back together that had made my whole body feel tingly. The pride in seeing all of our friends come out to support him, the way my heart had melted when he'd realised how cared for he was.

The heart-wrenching pain of seeing Artie so tormented by his past and his nightmares. The sweet bliss of being able to comfort him. The perfect naturalness of spending time together. The relief at seeing him so happy to be singing again.

The gnawing worry at his wheezy breathing. The moment of blankness when he stops breathing. The dizzying fear when I run for help. That blinding panic when I hear his heart stop.

The need to get back, no matter the pain it causes me. The crushing heaviness of seeing him so entirely helpless. The crippling uselessness when I know there's nothing I can do for him. The stabbing guilt and the agonising weakness that pushes me into hours of tears. And then finally that empty, voided nothingness, that muffled numbness that swallowed me while I waited for something to happen to make me feel again.

And then comfort, and relief, and happiness, and determination, and anger, and defiance, and rationality, and finally safety.

Good God, it sounds a million times crazier when I list it like that. It's a miracle I haven't burst into flames or just keeled over from all of it already.

For a moment I consider what Artie said last night. This isn't the last time something like this will happen to him, not by a long shot. He might be better prepared to stop this exact thing from happening again anytime soon, but I've read about all the other complications that can come up from being paralysed. Being with Artie could mean countless more hospital visits, more panicked moments of wondering if I'll see him again, more uncertainty. Can I really do it? Is it worth it?

The answer to that question flows seamlessly behind it. Yes, it's worth it. Because even if I wasn't  _dating_  Artie, (saying that, even in my head, still feels unusual but sends pleasurable thrills through my stomach), he'd still be my best friend and nothing would change how much I care about him. I would still be running up to the hospital every time something happened to him. And I would still be waiting anxiously in the waiting room for answers, feeling that same fear and anxiety. Yes, dating or not dating wouldn't change a thing.

So if that doesn't change the game, then why not enjoy what we've got? I've got my first real boyfriend, a guy who genuinely cares about me and wants to be with me regardless of anything else, and that is a thought that makes me feel warm all over.

I quiver as I feel a light tickle against my neck and then there's a low laugh. As I twist my head to look up at Artie's face I feel his fingers in my hair, and he smiles at me before looking past my face to his hand again. "What are you doing?" I ask curiously. As if it's an answer, Artie holds a piece of my blue hair in front of my face, twisting it between his fingers thoughtfully. "Why?"

Artie shrugs and sits up to find the notebook, and I sit up too so he can pull his right arm out. Once he's got the notebook in his lap he turns to a clean page and writes,  _I always wondered if the blue feels different than the black. It doesn't_

"You're really weird," I tell him but I'm laughing and he smiles back at me. "Good morning."

_Morning. Feeling better?_

"Much," I say and it's definitely true. "You?"

_Fantastic other than I feel like an idiot writing everything out like this_

I laugh at his response. "Oh c'mon, it's not that bad," I say and he raises an eyebrow. "Well at least now that you're fully conscious I can read your handwriting. And I don't have to correct your spelling every other word." Artie rolls his eyes at me. "So your parents came by again last night?"

 _Did we wake you?_  I shake my head and Artie gets a knowing smile.  _You read off the notebook? Eavesdropper!_

"I'm not quite sure that still qualifies as eavesdropping," I point out.

_But it does still count as being nosy_

I blush. "Well, okay, maybe that." I glance up at the clock curiously and then ask, "Are they coming up again today?"

 _Not until later this afternoon._ I raise an eyebrow questioningly and Artie writes,  _Church._

"You go to church?" I ask in surprise. Weirdly enough, in all those years of being friends, church wasn't something that we ever talked about. I knew Artie's family was Catholic, but I had never given any thought to if he went to church or not.

Artie blushes.  _Only every once in a while. We aren't very consistent about it but they decided to go this week. Mum said they're both feeling pretty thankful._

"I can understand that," I say. Artie draws a question mark on the notebook and I smile. "Since last week I think I've prayed to every type of god ever mentioned since the dawn of time." I'm a little anxious about admitting this, but it just makes Artie smirk and I'm grateful my lack of distinct religion doesn't bother him.

I pull my right foot up so I can adjust the bandage on it, because honestly it's starting to itch. Artie is watching me curiously as I unwrap it, his eyes following the progress of my hands with almost hypnotised fascination. Once the bandage is removed, I survey my ankle thoughtfully. The swelling is down so my ankle is actually close to its normal size, and the bruising is fading.

_It looks a lot better_

"It feels a lot better too," I say, prodding along the edges of my ankle tentatively and am satisfied by the muted stinging. "Should be good again this week." As I'm carefully wrapping my ankle, a question pops into my mind and I can't stop myself from asking it. "Artie, did your dad tell you that story about when he was on track in high school?"

Artie smiles.  _Oh he told you that one did he?_  I nod and Artie pulls his bottom lip between his teeth.  _Ya I know that one. While we were fighting I didn't talk to anyone about why but after a while when I cooled out and wasn't so mad anymore I realised I missed you and was sort of confused about us. So I went to talk to my dad about it and he dropped that story in._ Artie gives a quiet laugh as he writes the next line,  _He tried to be really casual about it but he's about as subtle as a shotgun_

I laugh at the comment and Artie watches my face thoughtfully. "It's good to know your dad's always got my back," I say, which gets another smile out of him.

_Why'd you ask?_

"I was wondering if that's why you forgave me," I explain.

Artie's writing is a rapid, looping mess because of how quickly he's writing.  _I forgave you because you're my best friend and we all make mistakes. I messed up just as bad as you. Dad didn't sway my decision, just sort of … accelerated it_

I smile. "Remind me to thank him for that," I say. When I look down I notice that Artie's set down the pen and is flexing his fingers. "You okay?"

_Not used to writing this much. Makes my hand tired_

"Thumbs of Steel gets tired over a little writing?" I ask teasingly and Artie bumps me with his shoulder, smirking.

 _Don't be a brat._ He toys with the pen for a moment and then writes,  _Talk to me T_

"What about?" I ask, thinking he's referring to something specific.

_I don't care, just talk about anything. I just wanna listen_

"Wow, you just listening without talking?" I ask and Artie elbows my side, trying not to laugh. "Okay, okay." Artie sets the notebook off to the side, and then lays his head back. I prop my head up on my elbow, laying on my side, and my other hand finds his. He's smiling, and he turns his head to the side so he can see me.

For a moment I try to come up with something to say. I have spent so much time with Artie that it's hard to think of things he wouldn't already know. That's when it occurs to me that although he knows everything about me since we met, he doesn't know a whole lot before that.

"Have I ever told you about the time my dad took me back to Korea to meet my grandparents?" I ask and Artie shakes his head. "It was amazing. I'd never been to Korea before, but the place where my grandparents live is so beautiful. It was sort of scary meeting them for the first time though. My grandpa is one of those old guys who just looks naturally grumpy, like he's gonna swing his cane at you and chase you off his yard if you mess up his grass."

Artie smiles appreciatively and I can feel his eyes tracing over my face as I talk. I let my stories spin off on tangents into other stories, and eventually I notice that Artie's breathing is slowing down and his eyes are heavy. I keep talking even after his eyes close and all the way up until the moment when I'm positive he's asleep again.


	20. A Not-So-Covert Spy Mission

Artie doesn't sleep for very long this time. When he wakes up I'm curled up at the foot of the bed, reading a book for English class. He tugs on my sock to get my attention and then gestures for me to sit by him. While I'm settling in next to him he gets the notebook out again.

_What you reading?_

" _Of Mice and Men_ ," I say, holding out the book for him to look at. "Mrs. Reynolds gave it out Friday for us to read."

_How is it so far?_

"I don't know, I'm only just starting the second chapter," I say. Artie smiles but he's still examining the book curiously, and as his eyes pan over the summary on the back cover he gets that really intent look on his face like he does whenever he'd really interested in something.

He hands the book back to me and then writes,  _sounds cool_

I stare at the cover for a moment. "Want me to read it to you?" I offer.

_I don't want to make you start over_

"Why not? It's not like I was really paying attention to it," I say. Okay, so that was partly a lie but he doesn't need to know that. Besides, it's only one chapter. "You're going to need to read the book eventually if you're going to get caught back up in class, we might as well read it together."

Artie taps the pen for a few seconds, his eyes far away as he thinks, and then he nods and pushes the notebook away. He slips his arm around my shoulders as I settle against his side, and I turn back to the beginning of the book. I pause to glance up at him, getting a nod in response, before starting.

" _A few miles south of Soledad, the Salinas River drops in close to the hillside bank…"_

I read everything slowly and carefully, wanting to make sure I don't stumble over the words too much. Artie is listening intently, a surprise in itself since I'd expected him to fall back asleep pretty quickly once I started reading. After a few pages he rests his chin on my shoulder, his eyes following along with mine as I read. The hand around my side is toying with the drawstring of my jacket hood, but then again Artie never has been one to hold completely still for long. More distracting is the fact that I can feel his breath across the front of my neck.

We're halfway into the third chapter when someone knocks lightly on the room door and we both look up in surprise. The doctor from the day before is back, grinning. "Hey there, kid, how you feeling?"

Artie shoots an annoyed sideways glance at me and I muffle my laugh. Then he looks back at the doctor and makes an 'ok' sign with his hand.

The doctor laughs and comes over to the bed. "Good to hear, and I'm glad you're listening to what I said about not talking," he says. "A lot of people don't listen and then we end up back at square one again." Artie just nods and gives the doctor a questioning look. "Right, well I was just coming by to check on your stitches. Last time I looked at them they were getting really close to being ready to come out, so I'm thinking we'll probably be able to pull them this time. Should we take a look?"

The doctor reaches for the tie at the top of Artie's hospital gown, but Artie draws back a little. I can see a really hesitant look on his face that doesn't exactly fit in the situation somehow, and the doctor must be thinking the same thing because he looks confused.

"Something wrong?" the doctor asks, his hands still hovering halfway between himself and Artie. I'm about to ask him the same thing when I see Artie glance sideways at me, looking awkward, and when our eyes meet he blushes. The realisation of what's happening actually makes me laugh. The doctor looks at me now, his eyebrows raised curiously.

"He's being modest," I explain and I see the blush spread into Artie's ears as he looks anywhere but at me. I slide down off the bed and into one of the visitor chairs, and then cover my hands with my eyes. "Proceed," I say, still trying my hardest not to laugh. Leave it to Artie Abrams to go through hell and back, and then still be afraid of showing a little skin.

Obviously my stunt worked because I hear the wrinkling paper noise of the gown moving. I part my fingers just slightly, (I'm naturally curious, I can't help myself sometimes), and watch through the gap between my fingers as the doctor finishes untying the gown and folds it down in the front so Artie's chest is exposed. The stitched lines stand out unnaturally bold against his skin.

And I am most definitely  _not_  staring in awe at the fact that from the waist up he is pretty much nothing but muscle. Not bulky or corded like the football jocks, but smooth and defined and hot. My face burns as I realise what I've just thought and I quickly try to push it to the back of my mind.  _C'mon Tina, he's trying to be modest, preserve some of it would you?_

The doctor is looking over the stitches methodically (those gashes still look creepy, although a little less now since they are healing) and then he nods. "Yeah, looks like these are ready to go. I'll be right back," he says and then leaves the room.

I enjoy the view between my fingers while he's gone, and I have to admit that Artie looks  _really_  good. Apparently I am a little too obvious because when Artie glances in my direction he meets my eyes through my fingers. His face turns bright red again and he picks up the pen lid, throwing it at me. I squeak and duck the shot.

"Okay, sorry, I'm really not looking now," I say, turning around so I'm facing the other way and covering my face in my arms. A few seconds later I hear the doctor come back in and I try not to think about the fact that he's cutting out the string that's sewn through Artie's chest. That's just sort of gross.

Admittedly, my brain goes back to the glimpse I got. It's sort of a weird thing to think about Artie being  _hot_ , and I mean that in the least offensive way possible. I've always thought he was cute, and adorable, and innocently sweet, but hot is a completely different category. There is no denying though that, beneath his sweater vests and suspenders, Artie is hot. His whole torso is clean planes of muscle, more lean like swimmer or runner muscle than football player. He's got pretty defined abs, and then there's those shoulder muscles. I'd felt them before when leaning my head against him, but there's a real difference when you're  _seeing_  them. I had already reasoned that he must be fairly decently built, after years of pushing his body weight around with only his upper body, but – wow.

It's a long fifteen minutes later when I finally hear the rustling of hospital gown material and a minute after that the doctor says, "Alright, you're all finished now." I twist back around in the chair and finally lower my arms. Artie is once again fully dressed (or as fully dressed as it's possible to be in a backless papery smock) but he's still blushing. "Those are healing up nice, but still try not to move around too much just in case," the doctor continues, completely oblivious to anything else.

I climb back up onto the mattress, facing Artie, and he isn't meeting my gaze. Wow, I knew he was shy sometimes, but really? "Thanks," I say to the doctor and he nods, grinning that same precise grin, and then leaves. "You okay?" I ask, turning back to Artie.

"You peeked," Artie says indignantly, his voice still hoarse. When I go to remind him he's not supposed to talk, he rolls his eyes, grabs the notebook, and then just rewrites what he'd said, underlining it multiple times.

"Only a little," I say defensively. "I'm sorry, I was curious about the stitches."

Artie still looks like he doesn't believe me at all and I lean forward a little to read what he writes next.  _I feel so violated_

"Don't be such a girl," I say, laughing. "It's not like I've never seen a shirtless guy before. It's perfectly normal for guys to not wear shirts."

_Not in front of their girlfriends_

"Especially in front of their girlfriends," I say. Artie looks like he wants to argue, but after a minute he gives a grudging nod. "I don't know why you're so shy about it."

_Because I'm me_

I laugh. "Can't argue with logic like that," I admit and Artie smiles smugly. "I do think it's sweet you're so modest though." I giggle as his cheeks turn pink and his smile slips down into a familiar shy grin. "And I'm actually kind of glad that you don't show off your body much."

Artie's brow furrows.  _Should I be flattered or offended by that statement?_

"Flattered," I clarify. "If other girls started seeing that, I would have a lot of competition."

Artie breaks my gaze, biting his lip and looking down at his hands while I literally watch the blush creep down the back of his neck. I feel my own face reddening as well. I've always felt comfortable speaking my mind with Artie, but that might have been going out on a limb a bit. When did I become so cavalier?

After a second Artie scrawls out something and holds the notebook up in front of his face, peeking over the top. For a moment I'm too distracted by the way his blue eyes are peering at me over the edge of the notebook to even look at what he's written.  _Competition for you? Not a chance_

I smile, turning just as red as Artie, and then he quickly sets the notebook down and writes another line.  _Unless of course Angelina Jolie looks my way…_

Laughing, I shove his shoulder playfully and he laughs too, although he's quick to stifle it. "See if I compliment you anymore," I say sarcastically. Artie doesn't look all that concerned by my threat, not that I can blame him because it's not very convincing when the person threatening you is still laughing. Instead he picks up the book that I'd set aside with a puppy dog look in his eyes.

"You really took it to heart when I said you needed to read this to keep up, didn't you?" I ask.

_It's a good book. But you don't have to if you don't want_

I just take the book from him with a smile. "It is pretty good," I agree. Artie beams and holds out his arm for me to slip back into my usual place. I flick through the pages until I find where we were at, and then settle back against his chest and start reading again.


	21. Teen Angst and Shoddy Sign Language

There are very few things that can be done in a hospital without constant interruptions, and it turns out reading a book isn't one of those things. We have to stop several times, usually for the doctor or nurses coming in to do one thing or another. They bring him his lunch, inject him with a few medicines, do tests, check his vitals, change out catheter bags (I really do turn away and keep my face hidden for this one, not even able to imagine how embarrassed he must be about it. Not to mention it's just something I  _really_  don't want to see).

With all the interruptions, our progress in the book is pretty slow. I don't really mind it, since the breaks give me a chance to get a drink and rest my voice, but I do hate that it feels like every time we are settled into real comfort someone comes in and disturbs it. It looks like Artie is thinking along the same lines as me because he looks annoyed every time someone new walks in.

After a little while it seems like things are finally calming down and we decide to pick up on the book again. Ten pages later we're both feeling hopeful that for once we won't be interrupted. And then my phone goes off.

Artie rolls his eyes and lets his head fall back into the pillows with a dramatic sigh. I laugh at him as I dig my phone out. "Sorry," I tell him, "I just want to make sure it's not my parents." When I open the screen I see a text.

 _"Wheels up 2 seeing us yet?_ "

I feel Artie setting his chin on my shoulder, trying to read the message over my shoulder. "It's Mercedes," I explain. "She's wondering if you are ready for her and Kurt to come up yet."

For a second the expression on Artie's face tightens, and then he shakes his head in what is obviously supposed to be an off-handed way. "Why?" I ask before I can stop myself.

Artie looks uncomfortable and he chews on his bottom lip for a minute. When he finally looks up at me there's something sad in his eyes, and he gestures around the room vaguely. I stare at him in confusion, not quite getting the point. Artie opens his mouth, looking like he's trying to find the right words, and then sighs and grabs the notebook.

_I don't want them seeing me like this_

"What do you mean?" I ask. "You look fine." Artie's laugh is sarcastic. "I don't understand what the problem is, Artie."

_I don't like them seeing me here_

"In the hospital?" I ask and the way Artie's frown hardens gives me my answer. "Why? You didn't have any problem with it last time."

_That was before_

"Artie, you really aren't doing much to help me understand this," I say, trying very hard to keep the exasperation out of my tone. I know being patient is the only way I'm going to get Artie to talk, but patience has never exactly been one of my strong points. "It was before what, the complication?" Artie jerks his head in what I assume is supposed to be a nod. "They've seen you since then too, they were coming up all week to check on you. Why does this matter, Artie?"

"You don't know what it's like to be me," Artie says in a quiet voice, but there's an edge to it I've never really heard before and it makes me uneasy. "Whenever people look at me, it's with pity. Look at the poor boy in the wheelchair. When they see me, they immediately see me as someone who's weak. An invalid. It – I don't want them coming in here and seeing me and realising everything they think is true, is true."

My first instinct is to remind Artie that he's not supposed to be talking, but one look at his face tells me that's probably not a wise idea. He's glaring pointedly at his hands in his lap, and there's that same angry frown on his face that he'd worn right before he rolled away from me after our first date. The one that took all of his hurt and the years of discrimination and even the self-loathing, and put it all on display.

"It's not true though," I say earnestly.

"No, it is," Artie insists, still barely whispering so I have to lean closer to hear him. Apparently he still has the self-control to remember that he's not supposed to be talking at all, so he's at least being careful. "Tee, I'm a cripple. And I've accepted that. I'm not going to be a whole, normal person again, and in that way I am weaker than other people. And they can see that. And now that I'm sitting here, barely coming out alive from the sort of problems people shouldn't have to deal with at our age, they're only going to see that more."

"They're your friends, Artie, they don't think of you like that," I press, trying to make him understand. "They look at you and they see you, for everything you are, not everything you aren't."

Artie laughs quietly and I watch as he blinks rapidly a few times. "No, Tee, that's how you see me," he says and finally looks up to meet my eyes. "You see me. Mercedes, Kurt, Mr. Schue, even my parents sometimes, they say that they don't see the chair, and they try not to, but they always do. I'm an expert on this, I can tell when people are looking at me and when they are looking at the chair. And everyone else, they are  _always_  looking at the chair."

I stare back at Artie for what feels like hours. I understand where he's coming from now. He's speaking from that huge part of him that hates being vulnerable. He hates that he is even more vulnerable now than usual, and he hates letting people see him like that because he thinks they'll judge him. I might not know exactly what he's going through, but at least that I can understand.

I open my phone again and start typing a message.

"What are you doing?" Artie asks, his eyes narrowing as his gaze drifts to my hands.

"I'm telling Mercedes you've just fallen asleep," I say as I send the text. When I look up there's surprise and relief in Artie's face. "I might not agree with you, I still think that they see you better than you give them credit for, but if you're not ready then you're not ready."

For the longest time, Artie just stares at me. It's unnerving, but I stare right back. And then finally he blinks, looks down, and says, "Thanks, Tee."

I crawl up to sit next to him again and take his hand with both of mine, resting it on my lap. "But don't think this means they won't come up anyway," I warn. "They won't come today, but one of them will be driving me up here after school tomorrow and I'm sure they won't turn down the chance."

"I know," Artie says and the faint sadness behind his smile is heartbreaking. "But thanks anyway." He turns his head to look at me, and for the first time since the whole catastrophe, _really_  kisses me.

"You're welcome," I say when we break apart, and that finally pulls a real smile from him. Then I place a finger on his lips and add, "But don't think I've forgotten, you're still a mute. Notebook, remember?" Artie groans in annoyance, rolling his eyes. "Sorry, but as much as I like hearing your voice again, I'm not risking repeating that song-and-dance."

"Alright," Artie mumbles against my finger. When I make an exasperated noise he just smirks at me. "Fine, I'll go back to sign language." He gently lifts my hand from his face, kisses my palm, and then gestures for me to make myself comfortable. Instead of using the notebook, he's now defiantly trying to convey everything through hand gestures, and it leads to a lot of miscommunication.

"You could have just pointed at the book and I'd have understood it," I grumble, reaching over to pick up the discarded book after a long series of confusing hand signals finally manages to come together as 'let's keep reading.' Artie's trying to stifle his laughter and doing a poor job of it.

"You're only doing this to annoy me, aren't you?" There's something mischievous in his smile and he sets about trying to mime out his answer. "No, stop, I get it, you think it's funny watching me try to figure it out. And I just have to say, I hope I never have to play charades with you because you're terrible at it."

We finally settle back into reading, and for once it seems like people have decided to leave us alone and not interrupt us every fifteen minutes. It feels good, and relaxed, and all of our previous frustration with each other and with the rest of the world is quickly forgotten. Besides, compared to the hardships of the story we're reading, a little teenage angst and shoddy sign language is nothing.

We've been reading an hour when Artie suddenly reaches over and puts his hand over the pages. I blink a little in surprise at the abrupt return to reality, and when I finally look over at him there's an oddly determined set to his face even if his eyes look nervous and hesitant. "Tee," he starts but I place a finger over my lips to quiet him. He sighs, but there's a faint smile at the corners of his mouth.

Reaching over to tilt my chin so I'm looking directly at his face, he squares himself with me and takes a deep breath. For a moment I think he's not going to do anything, because the hesitancy in his eyes is multiplying fast. Then he points at himself, then touches his forehead, then points to himself again, then wraps his arms across himself like he's giving himself a hug, and then finally points at me.

And suddenly my mind is reeling. It feels sort of like that sensation you get when the roller coaster drops straight down and you feel like you've left your brain at the top of the hill, all light-headed and exhilarated. And nervous? Do I? Thinking back over the last two weeks, over the last three years, I already know the answer. So I'm smiling like an idiot when I finally manage to conjure up the higher brain function to get out my response.

"I think I love you too."


	22. Sometimes We Just Think Too Much

I'm having a really hard time sleeping tonight. I'm wearing my favourite pyjamas, curled up in my bed, but I can't seem to get my brain to shut off. All I can think about is that this is the first night Artie's spending at the hospital entirely alone. Every night for the last two weeks, he's had either me or his dad there with him and tonight we're both home. It's insanely tempting to go get my mom's car and drive back up there, except for the fact that a) she'd kill me, and b) I haven't actually passed my driver's test yet.

I lay awake, staring at the window while I think about how Artie must be feeling. He hates hospitals. And after everything he's been through, I don't blame him. So now he's sitting up there completely by himself. He must feel something like the way I feel when I'm home alone in a lightning storm. I wish he at least had his phone so I could text him, but his mum took it home with her after that first day and never brought it back.

And on top of all of that, I can't help but think of what we'd said to each other. Really? My face burns just thinking about it. So much for being like a normal couple, and taking things at a normal pace. One week in and we'd already said 'love' to each other. Well, said and mimed. And it makes me laugh when I realise that my mom's caution of 'don't let your heart get in front of your brain' just went clean out the window.

Yet at the same time, I can't find it in myself to regret saying it. Sure, I'm a little nervous about it, and I wonder if maybe it was too fast, but I still wouldn't take it back. Because I'm pretty sure I do love him. It's not like this is an insanely fast, meet-and-know-you're-soul-mates, love-at-first-sight type of thing. Artie and I have known each other for over three years now. We've been best friends for just as long.

And if I'm honest with myself, I think I've been falling in love with him for just as long too.

It's a crazy thought, but I'm pretty confident in it. I've been falling for him, slowly but surely, since that first day when he came over to my lunch table and asked if he could sit with me, fixing me with that sheepish smile I'd come to count on as a natural part of my day. And now, with three years of friendship and some glaringly obvious sparks between us, maybe saying it was the right thing.

At least I could be positive of one thing; whether it's as my boyfriend or just as my best friend, I really do love him. So I definitely hadn't lied about that. It was just figuring out which kind of love there was there.

How had he meant it? Did he mean as a best friend, or did he mean it as a boyfriend? What if I'd somehow misinterpreted what he'd meant? He hadn't said it again when I'd left to come home tonight. Maybe it was a one-time thing, a sort of spur-of-the-moment, grateful friend comment. Or maybe it's because both of our mothers were in the room.

I groan and roll over, wrapping my blankets tighter around my body. Laying here stressing about things isn't going to make anything clearer. I really need to just go to sleep. I can figure things out in the morning, or maybe it will make more sense when I go back to the hospital after school and see him again. All I know is that if I don't get some sleep soon I'm not going to be able to make sense of anything tomorrow.

I snuggle myself closer against my pillow, but I can't help but think it doesn't feel quite solid enough now. What had Mum done to it last night? I'd have to look into getting a firmer pillow. This isn't near as comfortable as laying my head on Artie's chest. My face heats up as I realise what I'm thinking. I want to get a new pillow because it doesn't feel the same as sleeping with Artie. Oh merciful Gods, I think I need mental help. It's with that distinctly pathetic thought that I finally fall asleep.

Even though I'm exhausted beyond belief, when I get up for school the next morning I'm in a better mood than I was all of last week combined. For the first time in almost two weeks, I'm awake and attentive at school, actually going to the effort of pretending to be listening in most of my classes.

I see a lot more smiles from the Glee kids today too, and for once they aren't the sad, sympathetic smiles. Rachel gives me a classic 'Rachel Berry smile' in the hall, that blindingly bright one that I think might be capable of damaging retinas. Brittany eats lunch with me again (she did this three of the five days last week, too, regardless of the glares Santana gave her) and I laugh as she picks at my cookie all through lunch, replacing every piece she takes with a baby carrot.

In the free time between school and Glee, Mercedes and Kurt finally corner me about Artie. "He's fine, guys, honestly," I explain. "He's just been sleeping most of the weekend. Recovering, you know?"

"And you couldn't let us know when he  _was_  awake?" Mercedes demands, planting one hand on her hip. I recognise this as a danger pose, and choose my next words carefully.

"Look, you can come see him today," I say quickly. "He should be feeling much better now."

"Oh you bet we're coming to see him today," Mercedes says and I can hear the diva coming out in her tone.

"I should warn you guys though," I say and that instantly gets both of their attention, "he still can't talk. They've ordered him to not talk for a couple days until his throat heals, in case it makes him cough and hurts his lungs. So he's not actually good for much conversation at the moment."

"Then what were you two doing up there all weekend?" Kurt asks and one of his perfectly shaped eyebrows arches upward as he exchanges glances with Mercedes. "Keeping your relationship entirely non-verbal now, are you?"

I try not to blush (which of course means I only blush worse) and roll my eyes. "If you must know, we spent most of it doing homework," I reply. "We've both missed a lot of school, that's a lot of homework to get caught up on."

"Having a little private study session, are we?" Kurt pushes, now smirking in a way that makes my ears catch fire too.

"You guys are awful," I inform them, and they both just laugh. Thankfully at that moment I'm spared anymore inappropriate innuendos by Mr. Schuester showing up to start rehearsal.

I sing with more enthusiasm than I have in days and the lack of pain in my ankle leaves me itching to get up and join in the choreography. When I try, Mr. Schue tells me to sit back down, and that I can join in Thursday if my ankle still isn't hurting by then. As much as I want to be annoyed by that, I'm just too distracted to care. It feels good to almost feel normal again. And of course there's still the nerves about facing Artie for the first time since the whole 'love you' thing and finding out what that's going to do to us.

As we're getting ready to leave, Mr. Schue comes over and puts a hand on my shoulder. "It's nice to have you back, Tina," he says, smiling. I am about to point out that I've been here for the last week before it finally registers what he means.

"Thanks, Mr. Schue," I say.

Mr. Schue squeezes my shoulder and then hands me another set of sheet music. "Give this to Artie, would you?" he asks as I take it curiously. "I'd run it up there myself, but I've got – somewhere to be." He doesn't say it, but I know where he has to go. The school's been buzzing with the news that he's officially filed for divorce, and she's bringing all kinds of help in to make it more difficult on him.

"Will do," I say, tucking the papers into my backpack.

He turns to walk away and then quickly swivels back. "Oh and Tina," he says and when he sees I'm listening he lowers his voice slightly, "Keep practising on that True Colours, I really think we're going to use that in Regionals."

I'm sure the smile on my face right now is rivalling Rachel Berry's usual one, and Mr. Schue laughs, gives my shoulder one last squeeze, and then leaves the choir room. I hurry to finish putting away my things, wanting to go and tell Artie the news as soon as possible. Once I'm done, Kurt, Mercedes, and I all climb into his SUV, which his dad just recently gave back to him, fully repaired from Mercedes' attack.

"Did someone slip you something in your drink?" Mercedes asks, looking back over her shoulder at me. I'm still smiling and practically bouncing with anticipation.

"What? No, I'm fine," I say and shrug. "Just been a good day. No slushies."

She and Kurt exchange another telepathy glance but then go back to their conversation about fashion for the rest of the drive. I don't contribute much, since my idea of fashion clearly does not mess with theirs in even the broadest stretches, but it is pretty funny listening to them debate back and forth about it.

When we get up to the hospital, my nerves start breaking through my happy bubble. Even though I'm still excited, I can't help but be extremely aware of the twisting sensation in my stomach. Kurt and Mercedes don't say anything about it if they notice, keeping up their argument about whether or not shoulder pads in jackets are ever acceptable all the way the Artie's room.

I go into the room first and I can't help but smile at the sight. Way to reinforce my lies, Artie. He's fast asleep, his science worksheets still spread out on his lap. I look back over my shoulder at Mercedes and Kurt, putting a finger over my lips and pointing at the bed.

"Again?" Mercedes asks in surprise. "Damn, Wheels sure likes his naps."

"You can wait for a while and see if he wakes up," I suggest and the two of them nod.

"We can't stay long though, we have a shopping arrangement we cannot miss," Kurt says and we move the rest of the way into the room.

We talk for a while, mostly about things from school, and Mercedes does a good job at filling us in on all of the gossip that it seemed like no one but her was privy to. After a half hour they head out with promises that if Artie's not awake when we show up tomorrow, they'll wake him up. I watch until they vanish from sight and then turn to Artie with a smile.

"You can stop pretending now, they're gone," I say.

For a second nothing happens, and then Artie opens one eye slightly, looking around the room. I laugh as he straightens up, pushing his glasses back into place, and then smiles at me. "How'd you know?" he asks curiously.

"When you're really asleep, you make this sort of low humming noise," I say and he smiles in embarrassment. "And I caught you peeking a couple times. You're not as sneaky as you think you are. If Kurt and Mercedes weren't so fixated on their gossip, they'd have found you out too and then you'd really have been in trouble."

Artie just shrugs, gathering all of his homework and setting it on the table beside the bed. "Why were you faking?" I ask and I see something click in Artie's eyes. I've noticed he's especially sensitive to the word 'faking' now, my fault entirely I know, and it's enough to get an answer out of him.

"Still not ready," he says quietly. He looks up to see me staring at him and smiles. "Just for today. I won't tomorrow, I promise, I just wanted a little more time."

"That's good because they aren't letting you sleep tomorrow," I say.

Artie laughs. "Yeah, so I heard."

"I notice you've given up being mute," I point out and Artie shrugs.

"My throat doesn't hurt anymore," he says. "Don't worry, no shouting, no singing. I'm just going to go crazy if I have to write out what I'm saying any longer."

"And I think I'll go crazy if I have to try and figure out whatever you're miming, deliberately horribly I might add," I say and even though we both laugh I can feel something in the air between us change and I know we're both thinking of last night. We both look away awkwardly, and after a while we finally decide on doing our homework together.

Our day passes in the same sort of pattern it did before, where we work on homework until we get bored and then just enjoy being together. As promised, Artie keeps his voice low and still lets me do most of the talking, occasionally falling back on facial expressions and hand gestures in exchange for verbal answers. It gives me a private thrill when I realise just how easily I can understand him like this, even better than his parents do when they come in later.

At night my mum comes in to pick me up again and I grudgingly get my things. Artie squeezes my hand and says, "Night, Tee," but when I look at his eyes I see something that makes my heart flutter. It's an expression I've seen a thousand times; he meets my eyes and there's complete focus in them, like I'm the only thing he sees, and I can almost  _feel_  his smile coming through his gaze, warm and sweet and sincere. And it's telling me the exact same thing he signed out to me the night before.

That's when I realise that last night wasn't the first time he's told me that he loves me. Every time he fixed me with this look, he was been saying it without words. And every time that I stared back and smiled, I've told him the same thing.

I bend over to kiss his cheek, and am rewarded with a sheepish smile for my daring, before leaving the hospital feeling more content than I can ever remember being.


	23. Some Things Never Change

I'm sitting on the couch in the living room, watching the clock and bouncing my foot anxiously. The hands of the clock seem to be moving ridiculously slow. Maybe it's because I'm watching them. I look away, staring at my feet for a while, and then look back up. Nope, still moving slow.

"You're up early." I glance up at the doorway to the living room and see my dad, already dressed for work. "What's got you up so early? You don't need to leave for school for another half hour, don't you?" Then suddenly he smiles and says, "Oh, right, you're friend's first day back."

I nod and glance at the clock again. It's Monday and in a half hour Artie and I will be going to school together for the first time in two and a half weeks. He'd been released home last Thursday and after taking all weekend to recover his parents had agreed that he could go back to school today. I'm so excited by this that I woke up an hour early.

"Well have a good day at school," Dad says and he comes in to kiss my forehead before leaving. "I'll see you at dinner."

"Bye, Dad," I call after him and then settle back into my staring contest with the wall clock. It feels like an insane amount of time later when the hands finally move close enough to the right time that I can warrant leaving. I grab up my bag and try to walk instead of run out of the door.

At the street corner I stop and wait, and I remember how two and a half weeks ago I'd done the same thing. Except this time instead of foreboding in my stomach, there's eagerness. I'm not there for long when I see Artie roll down his driveway and even from a half block away I can see him smile when he spots me.

"Morning," he says when he's within hearing range.

"Morning," I reply. "You ready?"

Artie laughs. "So much more than ready," he says and then holds his hands out for my backpack. I hand it off to him and while he's settling it into his lap I walk around behind his chair and start us on our way. It feels so completely normal that it's almost like nothing ever happened. The only noticeable difference is in the way Artie has a tendency to glance up at me more often, even when we aren't talking, and then smile before looking forward again.

"Hey Tee," he says suddenly, tilting his head back to look up at me a half-block from the school. "Did you tell everyone? About, you know,  _us_?"

I smile but shake my head. His eyebrows come together in confusion and I know what he's thinking so I quickly explain, "Mercedes beat me to it."

At this Artie laughs and his face relaxes. "I should have guessed as much," he says, shaking his head in amusement. "Nothing stays quiet with her around. Not that I wanted it to stay quiet or anything," he adds hastily, shooting a quick, nervous glance up at me.

"It's okay, I know what you meant," I assure him and he smiles again. We go into the school and, just like usual, Kurt and Mercedes are waiting for us at my locker.

"Good to see you back," Kurt says and Mercedes nods, beaming at Artie.

"Thanks, guys," Artie says, trying not to blush again. "It's good to be back." We immediately slip back into our typical routines, moving from my locker to Artie's and then when the bell rings we split into pairs and head off for our classes.

Slipping into the back of our science class, Mr. Spencer glances at Artie and gives him a nod before turning his back on us. He completely ignores my existence. "Looks like things are back to normal," I say with a laugh, taking my seat as Artie parks his chair at the handicap desk.

The rest of our day goes by as normal as always, with the exception that Glee kids keep yelling out hi to Artie in the halls when they pass. Artie seems both pleased and embarrassed by the attention.

Our lunch table is surprisingly crowded today, with Quinn, Rachel, Brittany, and Finn all squeezing in with our normal group of four. It's sort of strange, having such a big lunch crowd, but it's fun to have so much talking and laughing going on. Artie gets a real kick out of the way Brittany steals my cookie bit by bit again, picking out all the raisins and putting them back on my tray, although I've gotten pretty used to it by now. It doesn't bother me; she's funny and it's not like cafeteria cookies are really worth fighting over anyway. I figure the only reason she likes them at all is because she's not allowed to eat sugary foods anywhere else.

In between seventh and eighth periods, things really slip back into the norm. A group of jocks is passing Artie, Mercedes, Kurt and I in the hall and one of them yells, "Hey freaks." Reflexively all four of us close our eyes and brace ourselves, and a second later I hear the tell-tale splash of slushie hitting someone's face. I can feel some of it on my arm, but I wasn't the one hit.

Squinting, just in case a second slushie is on its way, I look sideways at my friends and see that it's Artie dripping in blue sludge. My temper flares (he just got out of the hospital and already he's being targeted) and I'm about to spin around and yell at the stupid jock when I hear laughing. More specifically, _Artie_  laughing.

I'm so caught off guard by this my words die in my mouth and I look down at Artie. He's laughing, trying fruitless to find a clean patch of his shirt to wipe his glasses on. When he looks up and sees all three of us staring at him in surprise, he just grins. "It's good to know that some things never change," he says by way of an explanation.

All of us exchange looks but Artie's laughter is infectious and we can't stop ourselves from joining in. "C'mon, let's get you cleaned up. I only have maths next, it's not like I need to be there," Kurt says and rolls Artie into the nearest restroom.

I don't see Artie again until after school when we meet up to go to Glee. Kurt did an impressive job of getting all the slushie off Artie, although he's changed shirts and there's something a little weird in the way his hair is laying across his forehead. Artie notices my glance and laughs. "He used something weird to get the stickiness out of my hair, and now I smell funny," he complains, wrinkling his nose, and I snort back a laugh.

"You smell like a girl," I tell him and in response he, oh so maturely, sticks his tongue out at me.

The mood in Glee club is noticeably higher than usual. It seems like I'm not the only one who's happy Artie's back, because for some reason everyone else seems to be in a good mood too. Maybe it's just that feeling of finally having the whole team together again, because the team spirit is definitely here today.

Mr. Schue is beaming excitedly when he walks in and set his bag on the piano. "Hey guys," he says and everyone stops talking to pay attention. "Alright, exciting day today. Let's welcome back Artie." Everyone starts clapping, shouting out welcomes, and Artie's ears turn pink. "It's good to have you back," Mr. Schue says. "And also, we're starting on a new song."

As he goes along, passing out the sheet music, he looks sideways at Artie and says, "I already gave you the music for this one. I know you aren't supposed to sing for a couple more days, but you think you can cover the guitar part?"

Artie glances down at the song and grins. "No problem, Mr. S," he says and rolls over to retrieve his guitar. It's the most exciting Glee practice we've had in a while, and by the end of it we're all laughing and dancing together, ignoring Mr. Schuester's suggestions for choreography and just going with whatever we feel like. He surrenders control of practice and we wind up in another impromptu jam session, breaking out random songs we've done before and giving up on perfection and performance for the thrill of singing together again. We're having so much fun it's a half hour after we normally end before Mr. Schue realises we've run late.

Together, Artie and I walk home and we wind up at his house, sprawled out on his bed and still struggling to get caught up on all the homework we've been fighting through. "Why did I have to miss school right before end of term?" Artie keeps grumbling as we work our way through stacks of notes and study guides.

Nothing feels different than usual except that perhaps we lay a little closer together while we're working, and it doesn't feel as awkward when we brush each others' arms reaching for things. There's no tension between us, just a natural, perfect harmony of us being totally in sync with each other and enjoying the feel of that compatibility.

As we toss aside our homework and Artie sets about trying to teach me how to play Halo, I have to admit that if I'm going to be crazy enough to fall in love as a teenager, I'm glad it's with him. Because what we've got transcends all those theories about where real love comes from; some say it's fairy tales, some from friendship, and some from bonding experiences. For Artie and me, it's d) all of the above.

And that is perfectly fine with me.


	24. Epilogue

**SIX YEARS LATER**

As I sit at my desk and tap my pencil against the computer keyboard, I can't help but focus on the weird twisting in my stomach. For some reason I've been feeling all morning like there's something else I should be doing, but whatever that thing is won't come to me. I sigh heavily and double-time the pace of my pencil.

"Powering down for the weekend already, Art?"

I glance up in surprise as someone steps into my office. It's one of my co-workers, Tyler, a man about five or so years older than me who I made fast friends with after starting work for his graphic design business three years ago. We now run the business as partners. "Yeah, must be," I reply with a laugh.

"I know what you mean, I can't keep my brain on the work either," Tyler says and he comes around to sit on the corner of my desk, facing me. "Going to take the family camping this weekend, and all I can think about is 'did I pack that' or 'do we have enough of those.' It's driving me crazy."

"Have fun with that," I say, tossing my pencil down onto the desk before I start drumming so hard I break my keyboard. "Where are you going?"

"Just up around the–"

We both jump as my office phone suddenly rings, cutting off his sentence. Giving him an apologetic look, which only makes him laugh, I reach for the phone. "Artie Abrams' office, can I–"

"Artie, it's Maggie." I fall silent at the rushed voice of Mrs. Cohen-Chang. She sounds almost like she's panting and I can hear a slightly hysterical ring in her tone. My heart starts beating doubly fast at the possibilities. Oh God no... "You've gotta come, it's Tina. She's just gone into the ER."

"I'll be right there," I say immediately and then toss the phone back onto the receiver. "Sorry, Ty, I gotta go," I say breathlessly, grabbing my bag and swinging it around over the back of my chair. "It's Tina."

As I'm rolling out the door, I hear Tyler shout, "Run, Forrest, Run!" If it weren't for the fact that I'm so insanely panicked, I might have laughed at the irony in that. However all I can think about is Tina in the hospital and I don't want to spare the brain cells for anything else.

My specialised manual car is parked in the employee lot, and I secure my chair into it before turning on the engine. It's a miracle that I make it out of the parking lot without hitting anything, because I'm so distracted. As fate would have it, since I'm in such a hurry I manage to hit not only every single red light in Lima, but also the lunch hour traffic. By the time I finally make it to Lima General, I'm almost a complete nervous wreck.

Dad is waiting for me outside the hospital and he reaches down to squeeze my shoulder as I roll up.

"How is–?"

"We don't know yet, Sport," Dad answers my unfinished question. "They haven't told us." He must see the fear in my face, or maybe he's just saying it reassure himself, but he adds, "Don't worry, I'm sure everything's fine."

We make our way up to the fourth floor waiting room and I see Mum and Mr. and Mrs. Cohen-Chang sitting there as well. All of them look just about as nervous as I feel, and I find myself receiving a lot of hugs that don't necessarily make me feel much better. What I really want is news. Information. Anything.

It feels like hours, even though my watch says it's only five long minutes, that we're sitting there in the waiting room, looking up hopefully at every single doctor and nurse that passes through the room but getting nothing from it. I'm on the verge of a full-blown panic attack when a nurse enters the room and says, "Mr. Abrams?"

"Yes?" I say, turning instantly and rolling to meet him halfway. "Tina, how is she?"

"She's holding out alright for now," the nurse explains in a steady voice. "We've managed to stop any complications from getting worse, but it's definitely still going to be a risky venture. It's gotta come now and fast or else there's going to be serious complications."

I can feel my body shaking and I'm really grateful I'm already sitting down or I might have fallen over at that. I run an agitated hand through my hair, trying to keep myself calm and failing miserably. "What are you going to do?" I ask feebly.

"We're having her prepped for emergency surgery right now," the nurse says and I feel my stomach drop. "She wants you there."

"Of course," I agree instantly. I turn back around to tell my parents and hers what's going on and they all say something along the lines of, "Give her our love and let her know we're here." Dad takes my work bag and jacket, and I hastily remember to also pull off my gloves and hand them to him before going back to the nurse.

The nurse leads me into a side room and helps me to put on a set of oversized medical scrubs, covering every inch of my street clothes. It's complicated work, but we eventually manage it. I'm then outfitted with a papery face mask and a weird sort of bandana that keeps my hair out of the way before she decides I'm sterilised enough to go in.

The journey down to the room where they've put Tina feels like the longest trip of my life. I'm hit with a blast of sterilised air when the doors open, and in an instant I take in the sight. There is the ring of doctors and surgeons and nurses, all crowded around the bed, and they are arranging trays of tools and green surgeons' sheets. I can see Tina, pale and shaking as she lies there, and as I watch she winces and gasps. The sound of the door gets her attention and she looks over, and my heart flies at the look of relief on her face when she sees me.

"Artie," she pants and I roll forward to take the hand she's holding out to me. I'm unfortunately barely above eye level with the mattress of the bed, but I reach up and squeeze her hand.

"Hey Tee, hold in there for me," I say. As she winces again her grip on my hand gets painfully tight. I feel utterly helpless, sitting there, but I reach up and gently stroke her hair as best as I can.

"Artie, what if…?"

"Don't think like that," I say quickly, holding onto her hand more tightly. "Everything's going to be fine. I'm here now. We'll be okay." I have to be the confident one for the both of us. She's so scared right now. I haven't seen a fear like that in her eyes in years, not since the time I nearly died back when we were in high school. I can't let her know that I'm terrified too. This time I'm going to have to be the strong one.

Tina lets out a strangle yell and I'm fairly certain she just broke the knuckle of one my fingers. My heart is seizing painfully. I hear the doctors saying, "We've got to do this _now_ ," and I look over just in time to see him pick up the scalpel.

"Tee, look at me," I command, wanting to keep her eyes away from that. Her dark eyes fix onto my face and I move my hand from her hair to her cheek, keeping her face turned to me and away from the knife descending toward her. "Hey, focus on me, okay?"

"Artie, it –  _ow_ ," she tenses and I feel her pain like my own as her eyes close and she grits her teeth. The paleness in her face is hastily being replaced with red and she's panting, almost gasping for breaths. "It hurts," she finally says when her muscles relax.

"I know, but you've got to hang on," I say earnestly. "Just a little longer, Tee, and then it'll stop. Just keep looking at me. I'm here for you."

It feels like ages that I just stare back at Tina, doing everything in the world that I possibly can to keep her calm. I brush my thumb over her sweaty cheek and forehead soothingly, kiss her hand through my paper mask, and just keep talking to her. I try to ignore the doctors behind me, try not to think about what they're doing and what could be happening.

"Everything's gonna be okay, Tee, I promise you," I assure her. She nods, giving me that look that says her love beyond words, and I stare right back, trying to convey the exact same thing to her.

And then a high scream splits the room.

My heart stops.

"Artie," Tina gasps weakly.

"Oh Tee," I say and I can feel tears in my eyes as I squeeze her hand. I cling onto her grip and pray, sending every possible plea for safety and protection and mercy skyward.

"Mrs. Abrams?" We both look up as a doctor approaches Tina's other side, and there's a smile on her face. My heart leaps into my throat. "It's a boy."

"A boy," I breathe in awe. Tina slips her hand out of mine, and the doctor places the little blue blanketed bundle in her arms. She stares down at it in disbelief, and even though her hair is a mess and she's red-faced and sweating, she's never looked so beautiful as she does when she smiles.

I tug the paper mask down below my chin, having a hard time breathing through it. "Is he okay?" I ask, trying to sit up straighter and see. The doctor smiles across at me and nods.

"You've got yourselves a tough little boy right there," she says. "Three weeks early and still perfectly healthy."

"Thank you," I say, because it's the only thing I can think of. These people helped to save Tina and the baby, and I am pretty sure there's no way I can thank them enough.

"Artie," Tina says quietly, and she shifts on the mattress so she's closer to my side. I meet her gaze and there are tears in her eyes. "He's so beautiful. He's got your eyes."

"Can I?" I ask hopefully. The doctor comes around to stand next to me, and after Tina hands the bundle of blankets to her, she lowers it into my arms. "He's so tiny," I say.

"He's just the right size," the doctor informs me, and then backs away. I'm almost afraid to move my hands, in case I somehow drop him, but I need to see his face and know for sure that he's really real, and he's really here.

Slipping my one hand up carefully, I brush the blanket away from his face. His skin is red but he's stopped crying. There's a fine patch of dark hair across the top of his head, and when he opens his eyes and looks up at me they are wide and round and bright blue.

"Hey baby boy," I say quietly, brushing my thumb against his cheek. I don't even care that I'm crying as I lean down and press a light kiss onto his warm forehead.

Seven hours later, Tina is settled into a new room, stitched up and recovered from her emergency caesarean, and I've already made myself comfortable on the bed with her. Our family has filtered through already, and now it's just us – me, Tina, and our little baby boy. She's holding him to her chest, and I've got one arm around her shoulders.

As I look at the situation, I can't help but think about how our lives came full circle. It had been years since then, but once again Tina and I are lying together in a hospital bed at the exact same hospital and just enjoying the feel of being together. It's sort of weird how things can be so much like last time, and yet so radically different. This time there's no questions, and no uncertainty. Tina and I don't just think we're in love, we know. And that's only reinforced by the little sleeping bundle in her arms.

Our baby. Two years of trying, and now we're finally here. My mind is still reeling from that. I stare down at his peaceful little face and my heart feels like it's too big for my chest. "What are we going to call him?" I ask Tina in a whisper.

Tina stares at his face for a long time, like she's expecting it to just appear on his forehead. Then she smiles and says, "Kevin?"

"Kevin," I echo, looking at his face. For some reason, in some inexplicable, illogical way, it just seems to fit. "I like it." I reach a hand out and lightly run my finger down his face. "Hey Kevin," I breathe.

Kevin stirs and blinks those huge blue eyes at me, and then he sort of smiles a funny little toothless grin. My heart melts and suddenly it doesn't feel like there's enough air in the room anymore.

"You know Artie," Tina says, smiling down at Kevin, "things like him might just keep happening to me the rest of my life."

I muffle my laugh so I don't startle the baby, because somewhere out of the recesses of my memory I can remember another conversation we had in this same hospital that sounded a lot like that. The topic was entirely different, but the point she's driving home makes me smile.

"And you know, Tee," I say and I meet her gaze, seeing in it that  _look_ that I love so much, "I think I can be okay with that."


End file.
